D.A.D

My dad died in February, and my sisters and I chose not to go to the funeral. As far as I’m concerned, I celebrate in thorns. Cruel eyes might come to you, but I am used to that fire igniting in my core, but I would prefer to distinguish. 

Being asked this burning question by the women who had to hide this caged creature, mustering a tone of weeping to give me the benefit of the doubt and not to judge. I stood there, my arms feeling as if they melted off. My brain goes back to the cold, biting nights with him. The nights me and my sister would tuck each other in, it was her who kissed my forehead as a light to shine from monsters. We were so broken, the days felt like nights. My mother in the hospital, us feeling just as lost as we look into our mirrors praying for the reflection to distort to each other, for a light bit of release. I think back to the times my fist hammer at the plate of life asking for nothing but this feeling in my stomach to go away; as life knows what’s in process is different of all expectations you have for it. Even at 4. He tried to be powerful but only the outside would applause. My brain at this point is a mix of the bad and the good, the good now sharped with the truth, rooted in lies. The things he would get for us, but only to hush of hungry, tired frames. We were so scared of the next day, we felt as if we were pushed off the edge of the world, every moment. So I sit down at the edge of my mothers warm, safe bed as we look at each other, hands folding. And I remember the day I was safe in my moms arms after the hellish time with, D.A.D, the flower bloomed and told me I was safe before I even wait for it to come, my body was cascaded into a world of white and safety. 

And I said with bugs in my mouth, “I’m not going to give him that, I’m not going to give him a part of me he doesn’t deserve”. Fathers aren’t just blood, as I had been trying to tell myself the opposite. But a man who gives only the bitter parts of the empty table, is reluctant to feel the rooting teeth of a hungry hand. Hell will treat you well old man, as I hope one way your soul may change.