The Sweater

Wrapped up in your resentment
it's cold inside the sweater
I hear you, whisper:
'she's a whore just like her mother'

The sweater brings me no comfort
a heavy reminder of the thirty six years
you tolerated me, I think we both know
it was never meant to be mine.

I finger the dyed baft, with the 
same disdain you had for me the last 
time I heard you whisper:
'she's a whore, just like her mother'

I've checked my wardrobe, there is no room,
nothing strong enough to hold the weight of 
the sweater, I tried to wash it but it won't
dry, soaked, tears of my childhood.

I waited: year after year, for you, waited
to hear any regret. But you chose to go
without an acknowledgement of me, still whispering:
'she's a whore, just like her mother'

I went, to make sure you were dead, you were,
I cried, not for losing for you but for all
you took from us - the ones you were supposed to love,
now, all I have is a cheap sweater.

L.J. Siewerth

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