Lack of Love

Mothers are supposed to know

how to love their daughters,

but it seems some don't.

They reject them even in the womb.

When the baby is born, they're afraid.

I never asked to be here.

She brought me into this

and then avoided me.

Throughout the early years

only my dad would bathe me.

Then, my teenage years arrived

and she had another, full of joy.

I had to care for her; she was small.

No one cared for me, so

they planted the seed.

Nobody knew.

Even though it happened

under the same roof.

I took a tumble down the stairs once.

Cracked my lip, it seems

that the damage was much worse back then.

They chased the money, blind to all else.

The family depended on it; the house, too.

Even the little one needed it, while I lacked love.

I sought solace where they spoke of it:

in music, films, and books.

It was the only way

to feel anything, even for a moment,

instead of this bitterness towards everyone

who tried to care, but only made things worse,

praising their younger daughter

at the expense of the older one

who had had enough, left them in the lurch,

but they never forgot this bit.

They should rot in shame

if they could only admit their mistakes.

The world might improve

instead of being overrun

by inept parents.

No one showed them how,

and they passed their hurt down through the generations,

unwittingly building

a whole new culture

of narcissism and a lack of remorse,

which has soaked into their souls.

Now, there's nothing left to do,

even though we're still here.

Someone's absence changed everything.

This physical pain is the result,

but it should have been a mental struggle

if they hadn't taken their shame to the grave.