Jan 31
I am my father's son.
A steady resilient silence that borders on apathy where others have affirming words and consolations. I wear kindness like a suit, tailored, matched, planned, and at the end of the day it comes off to reveal my flawed corporeal form.
I see his scowl in my reflection, though I'm not sure whether the feeling of pride is in likeness or in my own triumphs despite him.
Cursed relationships, I feels aborted upon birth. Having fought for my humanity, but still ending less than whole, I trust only myself to rely on. And yet.
I find myself holding out hope like a wide eyed brat. Like a fool.
For a fool, that just might see past the parts I'm missing.
