Sand-Worshipper Poem by M. A Heathcote

To have my needs met at home
By my kith and kin, my flesh and blood.
It was to me like becoming a sand-worshipper.
There was none or very little in the way of love.
It was hurtful; it was damaging.
It was a sham, about as fulfilling as Christmas.
About as empty as a melting Easter egg.
All tinsel and decorative cardboard packaging.
Like caring for a never-ending illness
a cancer.
Something I valued like a worthless U2 bootleg,
Something I always searched for--with an evasive answer.
To have family was to sleep beside peevish, bad-tempered wolves.
That grin through their gritted teeth.
It was to believe in genetic magic.
Until all the magic is used up.
And they refuse to even throw-a-bone.
It is a generational poison that grows in its intensity.
That wants to eradicate you.
Piece by minuscule piece
And unhinge you, simply because they can.
Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I know.
You've done the best you could.
Given you too didn't come by much love, right?