They fucked me up, my mum and dad,
Like Larkin said they would. They loaded
My little truck with faults they had:
My father’s scars from being goaded
All his life by the pot-bellied bully
Whose shifting expectations he could never fully
Satisfy; my mother’s optimistic shine
That others truly were divine
At heart, and they’d do the right thing
If somebody believed in them. Abuse
Is an obsession you won’t find weakening
Upon submission. A bloodied nose
Will likely prove reward for your contrition
For that which hates itself refracts the lover’s passion
Through more hate. A child’s happiness
Becomes a twisted braid of fear that they, too, will regress.
But on we go, and vainly try
To break the cycle. Still it’s true
Whoever states it, you or I:
They fuck you up, your parents do.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
.