My 23rd BirthdayMature

My 23rd Birthday

My dad came to England,

For a month's holiday,

The ticket funded,

By my stepmother.


On my birthday,

I had lunch with dad,

And wore a shirt,

Long sleeved and pale blue.


It did not seem,

The right time,

To tell dad the truth,

Not on my birthday,

In a restaurant,

While eating purri and curry.


I folded back my sleeves so far,

I was afraid dad would see,

Luckily for me,

My dad did not notice,

But then the mark,

It was on my inner arm.


Months later in Brighton,

Gabriel wished,

To play a daft game,

Where he held my hands,

And yanked himself back.


Wearing my caftan,

That had short sleeves,

Mom saw the mark,

So I pretended,

I accidentally burnt myself,

Taking the pizza,

From the oven.


Mom reminded me,

To be careful,

And I replied,

That I usually was,

Though of course,

I have never in my life,

Burnt myself.


I intended to tell,

My dad and stepmother,

On the third India visit,

Yet fearing that,

I would be tempted,

To pass my mark off,

As a burn to them too,

And thus lose my chance,

I secretly ripped,

Two more cuts,

That healed into,

Noticeable diagonal marks,

On my inner arm.

The End

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