The Custody of Ashes
Case number 218-C. Custody dispute.Both parties state love for
the child.Neither can remember the shape of what that means.
A house divided by tape and time,
Once a home, now evidence in a custody crime.Days measured out in summons
and forms,
Hallways echo with legal storms.She claimed the shelter, I inherited blame,
His lawyer mispronounced my name.Every word twisted into sharpened tool,
We mine the child’s heart as a field to rule.“What’s best for him” is
the line we draw—But we’re digging for blood in the court’s cold jaw.
He draws us broken, stick-figure ghosts,
Parents splintered at the axis,
lost hosts.A child with questions too old for his years,
Who learns to flinch at every cheer.Birthdays are scheduled, not celebrated,
Love is a ledger, not reciprocated.Slots and minutes, calendars marked,
He learns not to ask, grows quiet and stark.Favorite songs fade,
our stories erased,
Hugs exchanged for affidavits, affection replaced.
The court calls this fairness, but inks in stone,
No room for heart, no place for bone.Judgment signed where feeling decays,
Justice blind to the child it betrays.We recite rights in the sacred court,
But his silence screams—he’s no longer our fort.This is the custody of
ashes—Memory dies, silence thrashes.We both mouth love, but it’s just a plea,
Neither can prove what love should be.He
cries in the hall between two locked doors,
We rehearse our hate, keeping scores.
This is not about his smile or pain,
It’s about winning, control, the illusion of gain.Who can twist harder,
who can cut deep,
Who hurts best, who denies sleep.You call this justice, but it’s a cell,
A cage of paperwork, a bureaucratic hell.He is currency traded in rage
and in fear,
A boy dissolved in parental veneer.
Balance is a fiction, war is the truth,
He’s just a child—our living proof.A name in a file, a pawn in our play,
A reason to fight, a debt we pay.This is the custody of ashes—Childhood flickers,
adulthood flashes.We both swore he mattered more than hate,
But dragged him to court and sealed his fate.He drew a house divided by lines,
And told his teacher, “This side’s mine.”The verdict is final,
the silence profound,
In every cold ruling, a family drowned.