To my father, I was just a painful echo,
He drank day and night,
struck me with his belt every night,
until he forgot I was his own.

My heart shattered the first time he struck,
but soon I saw he needed this release,
he wished to believe,
I was the cause of his grief,
so I let him be.

I allowed him his ease,
if it brought him some peace, then my pain seemed small.

I let him think it didn’t hurt,
took each blow with a forced smile,
hoping it would end soon,
but the longer I hoped, the longer it went on.

After every beating,
he’d mumble apologies,
words lost, but I saw regret in his eyes,
hidden behind a smirk,
often followed by a gentler slap,
a softer touch, as if something in him opposed.

It was his way of showing he still cared.

I’d retreat to solitude,
my hard bed was my haven,
the only place he couldn’t hear,
hear me cut myself as I wept.

Just before sleep claimed me,
I’d look at my reflection,
measuring his damage,
wondering how much more I could bear.

But deep inside, I knew it was just time,
my life slipping away before me,
yet I’d make a wish on the stars,
that when I’m gone, my warmth would guide and comfort him.

© deola_amope