It seemed to spill out every time they called us names,
or threw things at us, or told us they hated us.
It seemed to melt our hearts when they wouldn't hug us,
or tell us that they were sorry, and somewhere down
in that black pit of a heart, they do love us...

My mother always told me "your father really does love you."
Well, why wouldn't he? It's not like he never took the chance
to get to know me, or call me on my birthday, or sign one
child support check.

And when I did see him, he certainly seemed loving
when he hit me, or told me I was worthless
right in front of the only lover who thought otherwise.
I'm sure him locking me in my room, or locking the phone away in his truck
so that I couldn't call anybody for help,
or locking me out of the house in December without a coat
was meant out of love.

Every can tossed in the corner of the garage,
the poison now attacking his liver
didn't stop him from telling me "I love you."
You can still talk if you're drunk,
you didn't even have to mean it,
but it would have been nice to hear just once.