November 4, 2015

I sat hunched in my room on top the white comforter you bought me for my fifteenth birthday. You stood across the room, eyes like satin. “You hurt me!” I scream, “you’re one sided, arrogant.” I’m yelling but the words are lodged down my throat like a sword, more painful with every gulp of air. Clenching my jaw so tight, I begin to feel my whole body go rigid. “A monster and a coward,” spitting up words like it’s my last breath; too kindhearted for my own good.

I hate when people tell me I look just like my father. Eyes like satin, eyes that lie. All I see are the lies.

My mother is beautiful. Bright and beaming. She thinks she hides it, but I know how much of a burden I cause her. Constant complaints, stress, poor choices. I see her worries through parts of her she didn’t know exist. Her hair turning gray at forty, the torn skin from the beds of her fingernails, the way she often touches her hair when around me; an excuse to look down rather than at my eyes.

Your biggest fear is that I’d someday stop being scared of you. Your eyes no longer telling the stories of an innocent man, but rather, a weak being. No longer tall, dark, and lean. Everything changing from the way I once saw you. What was a threat is now a plea for forgiveness. The tides have turned, only now, the damage has been done.


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