The Spoils Of War

The divorce is over.
The spoils of their marriage divided equally.
Now it’s just me they’re fighting over. 

Dad wants me with him.
Says I shouldn’t stay with ‘that hateful bitch’. 

Mum says I’d be better off with her
and there’s no way she’s letting ‘that deceitful bastard’ have me. 

The court tells me I’m old enough to make up my own mind. 

They’re wearing me out,  all of them.
I’ve had enough.

I’ve left a note.
Asking that my ashes be put into two small urns.
One for each of them.

Mik Jackson


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