I have always dreaded this day of the year.

My father, my abuser, died thirty years ago today.

Every year, this days haunts me. Because I never got the chance to confront him on what he did or what it did to me.

In poetry that I write here, I do not choose more than the first sentence and then I let it write itself. For some reason, it seems that is where the emotions, rather than the anger, come out.

Tonight I wrote one and this is the last stanza:

If this is love, then make it stop
Hate me if you want, but never love me
Love is wrong, you taught me that
Beat me again, it's better than that.

Sometimes I think there is a part of me that remembers what the child felt and it saddens me beyond belief that a child could think this.

Just a really bad day. It will get better. But I hate him so much.

"I finally have my heart!"

To the perps: Don't worry about me coming after you. But you damn well better watch out for God! "Vengeance is mine", saith the Lord