I will never be anything more than my past.
Nothing I do could ever change my blood. No matter how much I scratch, claw, or beg.
I have my fathers eyes, and his second hand anger. It's clear that it's far too big for me, it hangs off my frame - my sluggish shoulders.
At what age did I become an inconvenience rather than a loving child?
Was it when I stopped running into his arms as he came home from work? The smell of his shitty cologne filled my nostrils and I felt sick.
He really was a disgusting thing - wasn't he? A creature almost. Created by the hands of god, yet he has become so cruel.
My father has always been cruel, my mind has just been so clouded by naive innocence that I never realized until I matured. Now I must think back, whenever I am laughing with my father, of times where he bloodied my nose, times where he told me to speak but never listened, times when he used his fists in a dispute.
I've always had to swallow back my anger - someday I fear it will choke me.
