My first hickey was given to me the night I almost lost my virginity for the first time.
It was given to me by my first boyfriend, so I think he would have liked to know.
It would have been reassuring that his only living daughter isn't a dyke.
I was nine years old the first time I ever hurt myself on purpose.
I didn't start scaring until I was fifteen and a half,
and my father never saw my scars until I was sixteen.
I hope he knew that it wasn't his fault.
I stopped biting my nails, just like he wanted.
I started trying again in school, like he would have wanted.
I stopped failing math, like he would have wanted.
I wore a dress to his funeral, like he would have wanted.
I never wrote the short story about him falling in love with a porn star like he wanted me to.
I still think about writing it sometimes.
I had a bought of writers block for so fucking long that I thought that I'd never write again.
I wrote 2 poems in the week after he died and 4 in the two days after my mom told me that
he killed himself.
I'm not actually gay.
It's kind of totally complicated.
I hated his fucking girlfriend who I knew was using him the whole time.
I hated the way that his depression turned him into a man I'll never get to know.
I hated the fact that he put more time into a house who could never love him,
a woman who could never love him,
dozens of scrap books that cannot replace memories,
and it took me two weeks after mom and I went to the funeral parlor to get a box for his ashes to realize that
he actually did love me.
I tried killing myself. Three times.
I became suicidal at eleven after the man who I wanted to be my father died of hyperthermia,
yet I spent my time comforting my family instead of grieving.
I know how it feels.
I know how it feels to want to end everything, and
I know how it feels to loose hope in everything that you have left,
especially when you cannot see it.
I swore to never end up like him.
It took my father ripping himself out of my life with two shotgun shells to the chest for me to actually mean it.