You wanted her to call you Daddy
even though you’d never be her Father
You wanted her to be your baby girl
But all you did was push her to grow up faster
She wanted to be your Princess
Not some ragged, rotten, rascalled, enslaved
Damsel in Distress
And when you tied her up
You tied yourself down
Revealing how you’d never be able to
reach your thin, spindly fingers
up to the jewels in that crown
which you so wanted to wear
to be her king.
But, we all change our minds some day
And as she coughs, she tries
to push out the virus
Those little dots of green
to match the lining of her little dress.
So she can feel space within her body
So she can feel something but your
Dirty Fingers- stuck up inside HER….
Crawling in and out
as they try to replace that Dummy
which she never had
and which she never needed
but which she now desires
Raising this blank canvas now to show
the picture, that he wants it to
But Daddy, you are no Rotcho
and neither am I your muse-
Turn to the bleach blonde straw
stack of hay instead
she’ll bend and do what you want her to.
Leave your Baby
to grow up
on her own.
And chuck those faulty training wheels
to the side
For your baby’s made up her mind.