I was a small child, shivering in the cold
of the chilly workshop. In those days
I was quick and clever, but not old
enough to understand the games my Daddy played.
Now, looking back, I think his favourite part
Was waiting there, lips curled as if to mock;
watching despair cast hooks into my heart
when I found the door was closed and locked.
My stocism was a point of pride
amidst the shame. The thought of it sustains
me even now: “At least I never cried.”
The pain is done now, but one thing remains:
Just the locked door, ever representing
hopes dashed, dreams smashed, no happy endings.