I sat through your rants of how meager my months’-old tireless and genuine efforts were. I watched you trash them, and how little you saw them. How little you saw my dreams. Reminds me of the time you asked me to wake from them. The skies that felt more like home.
You literally outlined every wrong thing with me. Even reiterated it. Well, will I ever be good enough? Your words cut through my unsually happy soul. My heart, shattering with your echoes of how much of a failure I was.
Wasn’t it enough, to drown my expectations in your harsh negativity, that you had to sit me down when I couldn’t take enough? How cruel of you? But of course, “Go on. Choke on these nasty thoughts.”
I watched as your tone turned from gentle criticism to audacious insults. You even rumbled about how lucky I was, for the roof over my head, but then it collapses on it. Well, here’s your thanks. Hope it’s not as deformed.
You call it love as you exit with pride, having punctured my wheels of progress, and washed down my little walls of perseverance… I call this something twisted, and nothing I want to have a part in.
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.