Tug-of-War Child
Tug-of-War Child
You are not a toy, not a game to be played,
yet they turned you into one when love decayed.
A tennis ball with a name, a fragile heart,
a bedtime story torn in two, ripped apart.
Thrown across the net, each serve wrapped in care,
each return laced with blame, a burden to bear.
They smile as they toss you, blind to the pain,
never seeing the bruises that fall like rain.
“Two homes are better than one,” they say,
but no one asks what the child must pay.
A suitcase packed, never fully undone,
a life divided, belonging to none.
Two sets of rules, two beds never yours,
two silences echo through separate doors.
One loud with absence, one heavy with grief,
both teaching you love is always brief.
You become the rope in their tug-of-war,
pulled by loyalties you never swore.
Promises broken, choices not yours,
yet you carry the weight of their endless chores.
You learn that truth can shatter the peace,
so you edit yourself, let honesty cease.
You lie with a smile, you perform to survive,
a child strategizing just to stay alive.
“Mum said yes, Dad lets me too,”
you barter affection, you learn what to do.
They call it selfish, they call it sly,
but it’s survival your way not to cry.
They fill the gaps with toys and screens,
with birthdays doubled, with material means.
But no gift can replace one steady embrace,
no purchase can heal the fractured space.
You notice the sighs, the tension, the frowns,
love traded through you, passed around.
Conditional care, affection as debt,
a currency of love you’ll never forget.
And childhood’s damage does not stay small,
it seeps through the bones, it shadows us all.
Anxiety hums, depression takes hold,
trust fractures quickly, stories retold.
You grow up craving what you never had,
stability fleeting, permanence bad.
You love with caution, one foot out the door,
expecting abandonment, nothing more.
The tug-of-war shifts, but it never ends,
partners replace parents, battles pretend.
You wake in the night, afraid to repeat,
the cycle of pain, the same defeat.
But listen, child this is not your fate,
you are more than conflict, more than their state.
More than the schedules, the court’s decree,
more than the scars they handed to thee.
You are not the rope, not the ball, not the prize,
you are the strength that learned to rise.
The child who survived, who still can love,
who builds gentler worlds, who soars above.
Divorce is theirs, but it touched you too,
it left its marks, but it won’t undo.
You are the truth they refused to see,
the healing, the hope, the victory
And still, dear child, you will rise above
you will learn that strength is born from love.
Though the past may whisper, it cannot command,
your future is yours, shaped by your hand.
You’ll build a life where peace feels real,
where wounds are tended and hearts can heal.
No longer a rope, no longer a ball,
you’ll stand on your own, unbroken, tall….
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