Stop.

December 20, 2011
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Stop.
We were in New York
It was a family vacation
But you wouldn’t get off your phone
You told me to shush, your working

Stop.
It’s my first day of school
But you don’t care.
You leave for work before I wake up.
You never even wished me good luck.

Stop.
It’s my birthday, any birthday.
Does it even matter which one?
Every year you mumble happy birthday
And then walk away to talk on your phone

Stop.
It’s right after the divorce.
I complain about mom, you agree
And continue to fuel the fire.
You want me to hate her

Stop.
Mom moves my brother and I.
You call me and want me to visit
I say I cant. Don’t you know you’re the reason we had to leave?
You yell, I cry, we don’t talk for two years.

Stop.
You apologize.
But never admit that anything was your fault.
You buy me things I don’t want.
All I ever wanted was a father, but you don’t have time for that.

Stop.
You break my heart again
And I’m done.
You’ve burned a bridge you cant repaired.
Now do you wish you would have stopped?





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