Every which way I toss and turn, there are fresh, smarting bruises to remind me:
My father got angry tonight.
I don’t listen
I’m not as smart as my sister
I’m not as talented as my brother
I always have my head in the clouds
I spend too much time making music
My room is never clean
I’m too fat
I don’t deserve the roof over my head
I ask too much
I never obey him
I’m not the daughter he had always wanted
Why can’t I be as perfect as his other children?
I shouldn’t have been born.
I’ve heard it all before, but still
It makes me cry.
I close my eyes.
I pretend that
I’d actually had enough courage to send the letter hiding in my desk drawer addressed to the man
I wish had fathered me
I imagine that he took pity on me
I imagine that he sent child services to come save me
I imagine that he adopted me
I imagine that he doesn’t yell
I imagine that he wraps me in a big bear hug
I imagine that he loves me
I dream that I’m happy, and for a while,