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Description
Father,
I write you in small font because you're dwindling before my eyes. You used to be golden with life, happy, laughing; when did you allow yourself to fade? You used to be as magnificent as the Grand Canyon, a little worn, perhaps, but still unbreakable, carrying me with strong gentle arms like the river that shaped you. When did you become a mere crack in the sidewalk that I must jump over, careful not to shatter your spine. When did I start avoiding you and finding it hard to answer your questions? When did you turn into Father instead of Daddy?

I guess what I'm asking is this: did you change, or did I?

I know you asked for a poem, but I don't write about that stuff anymore. I can't compose "happy" things, because I honestly don't know what that feeling feels like anymore. It's really scaring me, dad, but I must confess that I don't know what I feel most of the time: happiness? Joy? Maybe I'm just such a good pretended that I've convinced myself too. All I know is that I write about the demons, dad, my demons, the ones that live in my head and tell me things I will soon believe. You taught me how to ride a bike and how to read; they taught me how to steal, how to hide, and how to carve words into…well, not paper.

You don't know what I'm talking about, of course, and I'm sorry for that. I know I should be able to talk to you about my problems, but I'm so so so scared of what you'll say….how you'll look at me. It's not like you'd listen anyways; everything's about you now, isn't it? You lost your job, I know, you had to file for bankruptcy and you're paranoid that the world is going to end. You've got a lot on your plate, I understand, but I honestly don't care anymore, dad. So you've got money problems…I've got mental problems -- at least you can fix yours easily, just get a fucking job already. Nothing will fix me, dad, because I'm too far gone now. Maybe if you'd caught the first signs; made me eat everything on my plate, demanded to know where the scars are from. Instead you swallowed my lies with two guzzles of beer and nodded, waved me through. Nice conversation, dad, glad we could get our feelings out.

Much as you annoy me, though, dad, I still love you like little seven year old me used to. Your hugs are everything to me, but they're so fleeting now: like you're afraid to touch me for too long in case the poisons seep into you through my embrace. I dream of telling you about me, dad, but when I look at you I know I can't do it, not ever. I know how everyone else would respond if I ended up in the hospital, a feeding tube down my throat. Mom would yell, she would wave her arms and erupt like a volcano, burning me with her spite, but I could take it, because I'm used to hate. My sister would cry, oh god how she would cry; she'd bury her face in the sheets, holding my hand, unable to look at the bandages on my wrists, and I would comfort her -- I could even take the tears, because I'm used to pain. But you, I don't know what you'd do. All I can ever picture is your face staring down at little emaciated me, blank and empty, emotionless. You'd come to visit me, you'd crack some stupid joke and then glance at your watch. You'd pull away from me, dad, you'd retreat into your little turtle shell and all I'd ever see would be the façade you'd put up, because you don't deal well with this sort of thing. Maybe you'd cry, alone in your dark dark room, hidden away from view, like you did when grandpa died. Beneath the feigned smile, you'd be broken within, because you didn't raise me to be that way: anorexic, depressed, twisted and wrong inside, suicidal. You'd stop playing your music, dad, because all the happiness and joy and life would simply drain out of you, and you'd fade from a well of hope to an empty glass jar, closed tight. And that would kill me, dad, that would kill me.

I wrote you another letter like this, dad; shorter, straight to the point, spattered with tears. I wrote a suicide letter the other night, daddy-dearest, because I was ready to end it all, right then. All I ever feel is hurt inside, dad, and I don't know how much longer I can take it. A human being isn't meant to hold such animosity and hate towards themselves; sooner or later, the world starts to tear them at the seams, or they do it to themselves. I did it to myself. Want to see the blood? I won't scare you with the gory details, but I will tell you that I'm not going anywhere for a while. You see, there's this boy - anonymous, random, crazy - and he made me promise to live. I talked to him that night, dad. When I scared myself with a pill bottle, he was the first person who popped into my head, not you. Does that make you sad? That our relationship has gone from hero to oh…him. I love you, dad, but you're not my protector anymore; no one is, because only I can save me from myself, and I honestly don't want to be saved anymore.

I know now that I'll never actually give this to you, father. You'd never take the time to read all the way through, so you'd never get the point I'm trying to get across: I love you, but not the way I used to. Sure, I still hug you, burying my face in your warm chest, never wanting to come back out. Yes, I sit and smile and dance to your music, forcing sunlight from my body to cover up the shroud of darkness I wear. I still sing stupid Christmas songs with you and decorate the tree, but it's with broken zeal, dad, because it doesn't feel like Christmas; where's the happiness and joy and excitement? I still talk to you about my problems, but I can't share what lays beneath my t-shirt, or burned into my thigh. How can I? We've both changed so much. You don't listen and I don't talk. I guess this is what they'd call a Catch-22. An impasse. Neither of us will win, so just don't try to change for me, it won't help. Just promise me to keep playing my lullaby for me, just every once and a while, when maybe my smile looks a little less real.

I love you so much that I cry sometimes, because I want to be the little girl you wanted. I want to be a good girl for you and bring the light back to your life, but it gets harder with each rib showing. I don't recognize myself anymore, so don't feel bad if you look at me and forget who I am sometimes. Just know that I tried, I fought, but I lost in the end. Remember that I love you, and none of this is your fault. (Please don't cry...)

Daddy,
I love you.

Description
Father,
I write you in small font because you're dwindling before my eyes. You used to be golden with life, happy, laughing; when did you allow yourself to fade? You used to be as magnificent as the Grand Canyon, a little worn, perhaps, but still unbreakable, carrying me with strong gentle arms like the river that shaped you. When did you become a mere crack in the sidewalk that I must jump over, careful not to shatter your spine. When did I start avoiding you and finding it hard to answer your questions? When did you turn into Father instead of Daddy?

I guess what I'm asking is this: did you change, or did I?

I know you asked for a poem, but I don't write about that stuff anymore. I can't compose "happy" things, because I honestly don't know what that feeling feels like anymore. It's really scaring me, dad, but I must confess that I don't know what I feel most of the time: happiness? Joy? Maybe I'm just such a good pretended that I've convinced myself too. All I know is that I write about the demons, dad, my demons, the ones that live in my head and tell me things I will soon believe. You taught me how to ride a bike and how to read; they taught me how to steal, how to hide, and how to carve words into…well, not paper.

You don't know what I'm talking about, of course, and I'm sorry for that. I know I should be able to talk to you about my problems, but I'm so so so scared of what you'll say….how you'll look at me. It's not like you'd listen anyways; everything's about you now, isn't it? You lost your job, I know, you had to file for bankruptcy and you're paranoid that the world is going to end. You've got a lot on your plate, I understand, but I honestly don't care anymore, dad. So you've got money problems…I've got mental problems -- at least you can fix yours easily, just get a fucking job already. Nothing will fix me, dad, because I'm too far gone now. Maybe if you'd caught the first signs; made me eat everything on my plate, demanded to know where the scars are from. Instead you swallowed my lies with two guzzles of beer and nodded, waved me through. Nice conversation, dad, glad we could get our feelings out.

Much as you annoy me, though, dad, I still love you like little seven year old me used to. Your hugs are everything to me, but they're so fleeting now: like you're afraid to touch me for too long in case the poisons seep into you through my embrace. I dream of telling you about me, dad, but when I look at you I know I can't do it, not ever. I know how everyone else would respond if I ended up in the hospital, a feeding tube down my throat. Mom would yell, she would wave her arms and erupt like a volcano, burning me with her spite, but I could take it, because I'm used to hate. My sister would cry, oh god how she would cry; she'd bury her face in the sheets, holding my hand, unable to look at the bandages on my wrists, and I would comfort her -- I could even take the tears, because I'm used to pain. But you, I don't know what you'd do. All I can ever picture is your face staring down at little emaciated me, blank and empty, emotionless. You'd come to visit me, you'd crack some stupid joke and then glance at your watch. You'd pull away from me, dad, you'd retreat into your little turtle shell and all I'd ever see would be the façade you'd put up, because you don't deal well with this sort of thing. Maybe you'd cry, alone in your dark dark room, hidden away from view, like you did when grandpa died. Beneath the feigned smile, you'd be broken within, because you didn't raise me to be that way: anorexic, depressed, twisted and wrong inside, suicidal. You'd stop playing your music, dad, because all the happiness and joy and life would simply drain out of you, and you'd fade from a well of hope to an empty glass jar, closed tight. And that would kill me, dad, that would kill me.

I wrote you another letter like this, dad; shorter, straight to the point, spattered with tears. I wrote a suicide letter the other night, daddy-dearest, because I was ready to end it all, right then. All I ever feel is hurt inside, dad, and I don't know how much longer I can take it. A human being isn't meant to hold such animosity and hate towards themselves; sooner or later, the world starts to tear them at the seams, or they do it to themselves. I did it to myself. Want to see the blood? I won't scare you with the gory details, but I will tell you that I'm not going anywhere for a while. You see, there's this boy - anonymous, random, crazy - and he made me promise to live. I talked to him that night, dad. When I scared myself with a pill bottle, he was the first person who popped into my head, not you. Does that make you sad? That our relationship has gone from hero to oh…him. I love you, dad, but you're not my protector anymore; no one is, because only I can save me from myself, and I honestly don't want to be saved anymore.

I know now that I'll never actually give this to you, father. You'd never take the time to read all the way through, so you'd never get the point I'm trying to get across: I love you, but not the way I used to. Sure, I still hug you, burying my face in your warm chest, never wanting to come back out. Yes, I sit and smile and dance to your music, forcing sunlight from my body to cover up the shroud of darkness I wear. I still sing stupid Christmas songs with you and decorate the tree, but it's with broken zeal, dad, because it doesn't feel like Christmas; where's the happiness and joy and excitement? I still talk to you about my problems, but I can't share what lays beneath my t-shirt, or burned into my thigh. How can I? We've both changed so much. You don't listen and I don't talk. I guess this is what they'd call a Catch-22. An impasse. Neither of us will win, so just don't try to change for me, it won't help. Just promise me to keep playing my lullaby for me, just every once and a while, when maybe my smile looks a little less real.

I love you so much that I cry sometimes, because I want to be the little girl you wanted. I want to be a good girl for you and bring the light back to your life, but it gets harder with each rib showing. I don't recognize myself anymore, so don't feel bad if you look at me and forget who I am sometimes. Just know that I tried, I fought, but I lost in the end. Remember that I love you, and none of this is your fault. (Please don't cry...)

Daddy,
I love you.