The Wreckage We Have Become

Two innocent souls who never chose existence; Thrust into a world of fracturing glass, Their eyes once mirrors of boundless wonder Now reflect the wreckage we’ve become. I see them watching, learning, absorbing The venom-laced narrative you’ve crafted: “Your father, the monster. Your father, the failure.” While you parade as martyred saint. Do they know of the handcuffs that bit my wrists? The metal cold against my trembling skin, As I was torn from what little remained Of the family I would have died protecting. Do they hear my phone ringing endlessly into void? Messages sent like prayers to a silent god, Read but ignored, as though my desperation Is something to savor rather than answer. Can they picture their father sprawled Across bare apartment floors at midnight, My body convulsing with the kind of sobs That leave a man hollowed by morning? You were once radiant; a model mother, Your laughter the soundtrack to our better days. Now you’re the conductor of this demolition, Engineering the collapse of what we built. I watch you transform into someone unrecognizable, Twisting into shapes your mother carved for you, While our children stand witnessing the metamorphosis, Inheriting the poison that flows between generations. They never asked for this inheritance of pain, These children with eyes that used to shine for me. Their innocence peeled away like sunburned skin, Replaced by cynicism decades too early. You’ve painted me villain with masterful strokes, A deadbeat, a monster, a cautionary tale. The children repeat your words with perfect mimicry, Not knowing they’re speaking another’s hatred. In quiet moments I wonder what they remember, Do flashes of our better days still visit them? Or have you scrubbed their memories clean of joy, Replaced with fabrications that serve your story? I am more than the character in your revenge play, More than the demon you’ve conjured from anger. I am the man who once held them as they slept, Who would have moved mountains to keep them safe. Now I lie shattered on cold laminate flooring, Coming undone in ways no child should witness, My love for them the only constant in this chaos, Though it reaches them now as a distant echo. Two children, never asked to witness this collapse; Caught in crossfire they cannot comprehend, The trainwreck spectators with front-row seats To the destruction of everything that should be sacred. What gods will judge us for this desecration? What mercy exists for parents who wage such war? I carry the weight of my absence like stones in my chest, But you, you carry the burden of their programmed hearts. When they grow beyond your careful conditioning, When they seek truth with adult eyes someday, Will they forgive either of us for this battlefield? Or will they run, rucksacks packed, shoes laced tight? I have become the ghost you needed me to be, But ghosts have memories, and ghosts can wait. Through darkness and handcuffs and unanswered calls, I remain; watching, loving, grieving what we’ve lost. Two children who never asked to be here, Now navigate the wreckage of what we’ve become. Their inheritance: the bitter lessons of love’s failure And the searing knowledge that nothing sacred endures.