Children of adults

You learnt from your duvet that your Mum had left hunting detergent to smell so she could comfort you with the seventies woodchip lamp through the gap in the door she left. You learnt from the Kitchen that your Dad would stay pick up the pieces that were you and Daniel who'd wet himself for soft hands while you and guilt dolls waited for the gap in the door to creak again. You learnt how to raise yourself then later on their were lovers who'd love themselves through you affection was an exorcism ending in a slammed door and a gap in your life. You learnt from your Dad that your Mum was a whore that lies were shouts truths were whispers and children forced to be adults dragged across a common in shoes too small for them and lives too big for them. I learnt from you that life are those shoes you wore that I can never fill them the way you do my heart.