Father, I....

Father, I…
cry sometimes as you speak.
Cry sometimes in my sleep
as I question the many insecurities that you have gave me.
Am I pretty?
Did you want me?
Are you proud of me?
Do you even love me?
It’s funny how you can father strangers,
isn’t it?
Wasn’t it you who laid this seed?
So why take it out on me,
I didn’t asked to be in this world,
and can’t even remember how many times
I’ve thought of making my exit.
But it’s not like you’d notice,
just like you didn’t notice how my favorite color changed to green
or notice how my walked changed after I lost my virginity
to somebody who told me the words you never could…
I love you.
Shit, do you?
I wouldn’t know,
because it’s not like you act like it.
And yeah you provide for me,
but what I need can’t come out of your pocket.
I don’t want you fucking money…
I just need you to start acting like daddy.
And it’s sad that when somebody motioned the word father
the first five people that pop into my head aren’t you.
sad that sometimes I wish my father,
wasn’t you.
And the person that I would call daddy,
is maybe a foot or so shorter than you,
a little bit thicker than you
lighter than you.
My dad…
is a poet.
And it’s sad that I admire him more than you
and he doesn’t know it.
Sad that I seek his approval as a substitution
for the absence of yours.
I’ve closed doors,
and thrown away the keys to locks,
so now the old me
is so far behind behind me
that I no longer know her.
And you always told me I shouldn’t speak to strangers.
But she’s there every morning,
in my mirror,
waiting for me,
and this little girl looks so lonely,
I wanna help her
but she’s helpless…
locked everyone out,
she refuses to get up
cause she doubts herself
she’s stuck holding her knees to her chest.
Hugging herself
‘because you never did.
Never did man up to the result of you getting your man up,
Never took the time to understand the product of your semen,
Father, I…
never really knew how to start this conversation.
You are about to lose me,
I’m drifting….
Doing things that I never thought that I would be.
Talking to you has now become a burden
instead of being the treasure that I once thought of it as.
This resentment that I feel has grown,
so now it has consumed me,
and is slowly turning into something stronger.
This wildfire is to damn big,
ranged to damn far,
spread my tolerance to damn thin…
and now my weight has decided to mimic my patience.
I guess what I’m trying to say is…
father, I…
hate this.
So now I’m gone,
and my only regret is
that I lacked the alphabetical structure to make me the little boy that you always wanted.
And once it was told to me that your mother didn’t believed that I was yours
and now I think that somewhere in the back of your mind you don’t believe either,
that would explain your actions.
Explain why you treat me more like a chore,
instead of a blessing.
But I’m not sorry,
it’s you that should be…
you’re missing out on my life,
you’re blind
and this will be the last time I make any attempt to give you your sight back.
Again here I stand saying to you
“daddy, daddy
you bastard…
I’m through.”