And I'm Supposed To Call You "Father"?

You preach about being my father.
Egotistically so,
You rant about how
you always will be here for me.
Ironically enough,
You never were here to start with.
Other little girls have memories.
Happy memories.
Laughter, joy, respect.
All of those filter through their memories.
Me?
Pain, tears, hate.
That's what I will always remember.
I don't have memories of
Feeding the ducks at the zoo,
Riding a camel in the dusty desert,
Or riding piggy-back style
Down the street.
I will always remember
The oppressive dark
And suffocating heat
As I hid in the coffin
That was my closet.
I remember the sounds
Of screaming
And sobbing.
I remember the sounds
Of shattered glass
And the crack
Of things being kicked.
I remember the feeling
Of my little sister
Clinging to me
As if I could
Make all of this go away.
I remember howls of pain
And tears laced with fear.
I remember things like this,
And I'm supposed to call you "Father"?