That home was our underworld.

Pained, icy cave—gaping fissure.

We happened there by chance.

The stars aligned in such a way,

And the archer’s honed arrow bound us there.

So we walked that line together,

Father, child.

I never questioned it.

I don’t think I ever knew what I was escaping, or going towards,

Or what I was too scared to face.

I thought that if I kept to you, I would be free.

I thought that everything would be perfect,

Like the families I saw at the shopping centre and on TV

I never thought about the yelling,

Or the things you did behind closed doors,

Or the fights you’d have when I was meant to be sleeping.

So I led the charge.

I tried to lead us out of that underworld,

That hell of screams and bruises and suffocation,

To some kind of heaven.

I was too young to know better.

I wanted what everyone else had—love and feeling and want.

Even if it wasn’t real.

At some point I looked back.

I saw the cracks in the walls 

And the dents in the paint where things had been thrown.

But there was no you.

In the midst of losing everything and wanting barely anything,

I lost the one thing I couldn’t control.

Maybe I looked at you the wrong way.

Maybe I shouldn’t have looked at you at all.

Maybe I should have stayed on that course,

Blindly, aimlessly.

Kept pretending.

Maybe I should have ignored the signs.

I should have given up.

I am still here and I can’t escape,

And all that I want and love is left cascading from my hands.

Still, I remember.

I remember those long nights

With your hair swept this way,

And your mood swung the other.

Your pungent Deep Heat muscle cream that we all hated.

The joy we found in the simplest things.

Our so-called ‘boys club’,

When we’d walk to the playground or sit in McDonalds parking lots—

Those taunting glimpses of what could have been.

Now, there is a mark from where you left us.

It takes the place of the spot on the wall where you held me,

And that patent suede armchair which no one else sat in.

We threw it out in the end.

Yet, despite all this, even though I am alone in this hell-hole,

I hold on to what I don’t have.

I cry about it in empty classrooms at lunchtime 

And in aisles at the supermarket.

I want a life, and love.

Is that so much to ask?

For some stupid reason, I want it.

Even if it isn’t real.