The Weakling Denizen

You did not rape
or put me in a hospital.
The manner of your raising me
was not bestrewn with sex and starvation.
Yet as the dung beetle of Time
rolls its expanding ball
across a cracked and baked landscape,
I find you wanting.
 
I cannot say I hate you, though.
You couldn't confess it,
even to yourself,
but you were caught in rage,
a lump of coal absorbing
and returning flame.
But more importantly
you didn't understand
emotions of the slightest depth.
Complexity just angered you.
Presented with a dilemma  
of heart rather than mind
you either hit until it acquiesced
with unhealthy results,
or ignored it entirely.
 
I dreamed of being killed.
Informed my sexuality
with submission to strong and angry men.
The weakling denizen
of Life, I took my kicks in letting others
call me names and confirm what I thought:
that I was useless, worthless, queer,
not even liked by my father.
 
A soul chained up against a wall
and riven with grotesque rapture,
coming to love the torturer.