At Last

At fifty, they fade away.

They both leave, 
the people who dreamed of me,
the people who hated me,
and I do not grieve.
I do not have to think about them at all anymore. 

But their barbs are sunk deep,
and despite my desire to forget,
those thorns stay with me always,
digging into my skin,
ripping holes through my insides.

Though freedom does exist
in their absence.
It was so long ago, now,
since confusion 
pounded on my door.

Funny how the earliest years of life
are the ones that matter the most. 
My children will hate me,
just as I hated my parents.
An unfortunate truth.

Because how could I raise good kids
when my own childhood was 
irreparably broken?
Anyone?
Any of us?

Maybe their adulthood 
will hide my mistakes.
Maybe the barbs I pass down 
won’t be so difficult to manage
once I’ve faded into the night.