I was five when the house split,
Mum chose a woman and Dad chose blame,
after his heart had folded in his chest,
and nothing ever felt the same.
She found Kestrel like comfort,
he found pity in a glass,
us kids got passed through wreckage
like childhood was easy to pass.
Back to Bransholme, back with Dad,
at first, yeah, it was daft.
Drunk playing lick the forehead,
chasing us round while we laughed.
Then she walked in.
And fuck me, didn’t the air change.
No warning bell,
just rooms with teeth and shame.
Me, Ben and Becky, youngest three,
sat facing cupboards all day,
tiny prisoners doing bird
for having nowhere else to stay.
Richard and Danny somewhere else,
while us three paid the price,
learning cupboard doors
before we learnt much else in life.
Then came digs for daft things,
smacks for eating slow,
food taken away like love on a plate,
and hunger you couldn’t show.
So I’d sneak bananas late at night,
not greedy, just empty and scared,
because a kid will rob a kitchen
when adults don’t fucking care.
We slept in the living room
with her lot watching TV,
Dad sat there doing nothing,
which might be what still murders me.
Telly loud, lights still on,
but if we weren’t asleep by six,
hands came down on us three
like pain was part of the bricks.
Six.
Tell me how a child sleeps
with fear sat on his chest,
when the room is loud as fuck
and punishment wants you dressed.
I won’t make the piss thing pretty.
Pretty can get to fuck.
Her hands where they should never be
left shame getting itself stuck.
A little lad lost safety,
now grown and still not free,
can’t piss if someone’s near him,
still carrying what she did to me.
Then came the locked doors.
Them away, us left inside.
Neighbours fed us through the letterbox,
like stray dogs nobody hid.
By nine, care came knocking.
Ben and Becky stayed in it.
I ran back to Mum instead,
because known hell feels warmer
than a clean strange bed.
So they let me stay there,
with Danny and the cans,
and I became a little adult
with old man hands.
Cooking, cleaning, watching her sink,
signing her benefits book in my name,
so she couldn’t piss the money away
then cry when hunger came.
I poured Kestrel down the sink once,
thought I was saving her from the drop,
she launched full cans at my head,
love going clank off the top.
I lifted her through windows
when keys went missing again,
wrapped wounds from beatings,
got blood off skin like rain.
Dragged her out of gutters,
held her up when she was gone,
school half dead with tired eyes,
asked why work wasn’t done.
Young Carers gave me a room
where kids like me all knew
childhood had been hijacked.
By twelve I was at raves,
disco biscuits in my jaw,
dancing with adults in flashing lights
because home was a colder floor.
Me and my brothers shared love weird,
through chaos, jokes and smoke,
made family out of damage
because damage was all we spoke.
Then eighteen came with a baby,
my own child in my arms,
no manual, no soft music,
just terror dressed as charm.
I wasn’t raising Mum no more,
but still checked she was alive,
learning to be a dad
from the shit I survived.
Three kids came, and for once,
I thought maybe life was good,
proper smiles, messy dinners,
a home that smelt like it should.
Then the cycle came knocking,
same bottle, different hand,
their mum started sinking too,
and I saw my childhood stand.
Not them.
Not my three.
Not while I had breath in me.
So I took the only lesson
my deadbeat ever gave,
how not to be a father,
how not to dig their grave.
I went through court shaking,
paperwork, judgement, sleepless nights,
and still dragged those kids to win.
Not from spite.
Not for points.
Not to play the wounded king.
I did it because children
shouldn’t fear the house they live in.
I broke the chain filthy,
not noble, not clean,
a stubborn bastard
standing where Dad should have been.
I gave them food without threat,
beds without a fucking price,
a home where love meant staying,
not bruises after tea and rice.
Don’t call me healed.
That word’s too tidy.
Too polished.
Too soft.
I’m scarred like six o’clock.
Scarred like cupboard doors.
Scarred like cans opening.
Scarred like sleeping on floors.
Scarred like Ben and Becky.
Scarred like Mum in the street.
Scarred like private shame
that still crawls up my feet.
Scarred like being the adult
when I still needed one too,
scarred like loving people
who nearly fucking ruined you.
But I’m still here,
which must piss something off.
Still laughing loud,
still mouthy, still rough.
Here’s the truth,
some scars don’t make you stronger,
they just teach you where to aim.
My kids never faced those cupboards.
Never begged through a letterbox door.
Never had to raise a drunk parent
hungry on the floor.
So no, I didn’t beat trauma
with quotes and candles and crap.
I dragged it outside by the throat
and gave it one back.
I told it,
you had my childhood,
you old bastard,
that’s true.
No more.
But I’ll die on my feet
before I let you have my kids too.