Siberian Lakes

We both know it's different now.

But what you don't know is how angry I am.
I'm angry that you are getting old and no longer have such good eyesight and that you have to peer at me these days like you hardly recognise me.
I hate that it seems symbolic.
I'm angry that your face is changed; your smile seems unreal and your lines are deeper.
I miss your youth. I miss your empathy. You never had much but there's even less now.
I'm angry that you dismiss so much, and that so much of what you dismiss is me.

There have been nights where I could not sleep and nights where I did- but you haunted me still within nightmares- twisted conversations; painful words.
I'd wake to bitter sunlight and the sickening sounds of happy children. How I envied them! How I retched with the reality I found myself in.

I have had years of denial, years of despair.
Years of trying to reach you.

But to no avail.

I'm angry that you left me long ago, because of your own actions and shame.
I'm angry that you are the only witness I have- and you were the perpetrator.

You told me once, "It's different now."
You didn't need to. Your eyes were as cold as the Siberian lakes that you grew up by.

We both know it's different now.