You let her send me away.
Packaged like a problem,
stamped and shipped to stone walls and strangers.
She smiled while sealing the box—
said I’d “thrive” there.
You nodded like a marionette.
String for a spine.
Silence for a mouth.
I was eleven.
She was already calling me a burden,
a shadow,
a stain on her perfect white tiles.
She called her children light.
She called me that girl
Like I was mould on the corners of your name.
You let her bleach the love out of you.
Now all you wear is her voice,
and it doesn’t fit right, Daddy.
You used to tuck me in with your rough hands,
tell me stories in a whisper only I could hear.
Now you only whisper to her,
when I walk in the room
And she slices me apart with those sugar-coated teeth.
She cuts me with compliments,
leaves me bleeding in apologies.
And still—
You nod.
You nod like a broken clock,
ticking to her every word.
Your house is full of sunshine now,
but it burns me.
Her kids gets smiles,
presents stacked like towers,
laughter as loud as fireworks.
I get a one-word text on my birthday.
Happy.
She breaks me, Daddy.
She breaks me with a voice that drips syrup
when she’s sweet to them
and acid when she speaks to me.
Her eyes scan me like a mess she forgot to clean.
And you—
You just stand there.
Are you made of wax now?
She hates me for breathing.
You hate me for reminding you I exist.
Boarding school is her win.
Her exile.
You said it was “for my future.”
But I know it’s because I didn’t fit her furniture.
Because I looked too much like your past.
And I swear—
Everytime I come home,
your love is like a museum exhibit.
Do not touch.
Do not ask.
Do not remember.
But I remember, Daddy.
I remember when I was the light in your eyes.
Before she turned them to mirrors.
That only reflects what she wants to see.
So go ahead.
Tuck her kids in.
Call them angels.
Give her the keys to your spine.
Build your kingdom of pretty lies.
But know this—
One day, I’ll stop knocking.
I’ll stop writing.
I’ll become the ghost
You were too weak to hold on to.
And when I leave for good,
You won’t even notice the silence.
Daddy,
you let her **** me with words,
and you held the knife.
My assessment at school is to rewrite a chosen poem as if I’m the original writer— I’ve chosen Daddy by Sylvia Plath, so this is my version of her poem. Feedback would be amazing.
