You son of a bitch.
You were no father to me.
My only purpose was to be your verbal punching bag.
Your anger became mine, a poison that still lingers in my veins, killing me slowly.
Nothing I did was ever enough; you only accepted perfection.
Your bellowing voice struck an animalistic fear in me, starting at the tender age of three.
Tears were unacceptable. Detestable.
So I learned to numb myself, and stay that way; now I cannot undo it.
You taught me to harden myself; to not feel; to never speak my mind; to only express gratitude.
But you never taught me the tongue of our people, our history.
I was alienated by my own family because
you
failed.
For the smallest of mistakes, I would incur your merciless wrath.
One wrong look or too loud of an exhale, and you explode.
Is that how a father is supposed to act?
Is that how you show a child love?
Is that what a "good, Christian man" should do?
Yet you thought that buying me toys and one half-hearted "I'm sorry" would fix everything.
But you did not believe in "I'm sorry," forbaying me to ever utter it.
All I remember ever getting from you was pain.
Now that I am grown, you think me disrespectful,
when in fact I am stronger now and do not care if you scream; I am no longer a small, scared child –
I am an angry adult who will not hesitate to scream back.
You had one job, and you
failed.
There is no redemption for your sins.
Nothing can erase the stain you've left on me; nothing can cure this poison.
I am eternally damaged.
And so,
from the bottom of my heart,
FUCK
YOU.
