Indian Giver

You have me frequently checking the front desk to see if your letter came through

"Sorry mister, maybe tomorrow?"

All that energy spent pacing up and down the hall, checking my watch, wondering why I Let you have such a stranglehold on me

We can dine in that banquet together, make fake smiles at our guests

Thanking your host for being a part of this

We toast to his rise, we pray for his fall

We get born into this role, life created without consent

And I don't know who he is but I still have that rush of anger at the site of his name

That bastard son that came to be the man I am today harbors all that resentment

My mother raised me on disappointment

My father raised me to reject affection