My father bought me a Lemonade cup
a sleek black cup glossed with lemon yellow dots
He had it on the kitchen table
next to a handful of cough drops
saying that it was mine, my own Lemonade cup.

Lemonade always tasted too sweet on my tongue 
Curling into my lungs, 
drowning all my wrongs
and then the tears would go dripping down
salt tangling with sugar
in an inferiority complex war 
making everything all the better
when in reality it’s so much worse

Bittersweet Lemonade
poured in every day
I drank and drank and drank
until you started to fade away

It was this
carefree lemonade that my mother poured into my cup
when I whined and cried in vain for a father that would never wake up.
He left without a glance back.
Turning dull eyes at TV Screens
hugging himself till the sky turns black
He no longer laughs.
He only lives in his past.
He forgets that I’m his daughter
He’s no longer a father

Mother always poured milk into my Lemonade Cup
saying all I needed 
was to just grow up.