Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Daddy’s Girl

I called God last night,


with everything he has going on,

I figured he’d like an update,

from his messiest,

most dramatic daughter.


I said,

without a hint of irony,

knowing full well,

that he had watched me give that title,

to another man,

I was willing to worship.



He sighed,

but seemed to do so lovingly,

as if I was a mess,

but one he hated to watch unravel,

because he always wanted more for me,

and though he was frustrated,

watching me walk,

with my eyes closed,

into danger,

on a daily basis,

he was slightly comforted,

that I always came home in one piece (so far).



I whispered,

my voice wavering,

before it was lost,

fumbling to be free from floods and flurries,

overpowered by the sound of my heart,


splintering inside me,

when I thought of you.

I cried all night.

He sat on the other end of the phone,

ignoring the world burning in the background,

telling me that time heals everything,

and for everything else,

there is vodka,

telling me that nothing lasts forever,

elation or eruptions of pain,

telling me that one day,

I’d look back and laugh,

and that was when I snapped.


No longer asking,

but telling.

Begging for relief,

to feel something new,

to forget just one of the things about you,

that keeps me a prisoner,

so I could find myself closer to freedom.

Daddy knew what was in my heart,

but he couldn’t grant my wish,

because praying never worked that way,

not even for his favourite girl,

and sometimes,

suffering is good for the soul,

or at least good for writing material.

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