My father was a man of few words and a man of many drinks,
losing the will to love somewhere around my mother’s second trimester,
and maybe it’s my fault,
for forsaking my sense for sentiment,
writing off his rage as just a temporary temperament,
saving the day with some new excuse,
letting my soul be used,
until there was nothing left.
I had a wild heart, once upon a time,
bound never to be broken,
but he drank it dry,
like every bar he entered,
every second he chose to be the centre of,
afraid that if he wasn’t loud and alive in my lucid moments,
that he would simply stop existing.
He wrote me a letter once,
weak willed and wading in weasel words,
a “can I speak to the manager” kind of meandering thing,
as if a daughter is a darling that can be managed,
as if I could adjust myself to his liking, on top of all the other things I was handling,
and I wrote back,
just as weak,
meek and hopeful.