here i am
in the orphanage again,
like the one
when i was a child
before you were gone.
there i was
stranded all alone
in a world of strangers
being manipulated
like a puppet on a string.
here i am
in the orphanage again,
eleven years old
going on 59,
trying my best to understand
forgiveness.
for what worth is a father
who cannot protect?
a mother, who does not nurture?
death stings yet does not
define the past.
here i am
in the orphanage again,
comfortable,
for it’s always been home
to be without
the love i’ve always had
to fight for.