Parentage

My insomnia is claws, your claws
upon my flesh as if scratching post.
My flaws stretched out in mirror lengths I see upon closing eyes,
clothed in a blanket of hair,
knitted in strands of DNA that bind me to you in a DNA service.
Your voice resonating long after final words spoken, or written or sung
in chorus, echoing through wide halls,
my prayers bellowing at the deaf
for silence. I wonder
if you ever regarded my feelings as more
than cause of inconvenience, if my skin was ever more
than kin to your flesh, free tapestry as you
crocheted it first.
There's a thirst, still, in the esophagus
for us to be more than owner and canvas,
pitchless, auditless,
but I don't know if I have the belief,
don't know if I'd feel relieved if you tried
to play a parent role now, solely caring, the sum of my parts worth worship,
daring to hold my needs as high as your own compulsion,
sick of writing as solution,
sick of lack of sleep as a resolution so you aren't there
when I close my eyes,
sometimes I still wish,
as I did when I was small,
I'd been nothing, honestly.
Een with this grand walled palace, gardens and grounds,
somehow you're found traversing, infiltrating -
and I misplace my health again
every time you find a way in, weaving a noose about my person,
digging nails to be certain,
oozing wet but I'm learning, see
my hurting really has never been any
of your concern.