when my father died

When my father died, I was six. He didn’t die right away, and he didn’t die with dignity. He was torn and cut away from my heart in tiny poisoned pieces. Bright severed strings of flesh that once connected us now lay against my sides like jellyfish tentacles, and every touch leaves a welt that won’t stop hurting. Sometimes they hurt so much I think I’m dying. And sometimes I think I’d like to die but it’s never quite enough to kill.

He was like a lover who left me. Blasting me in two for no identifiable reason and with no apology. Like an acid burn that doesn’t hurt at first contact I carried on thinking I was okay. Blinked and touched and smiled and fucked my way through a thousand other fathers, every one never quite living up to the original. Every one was just slightly wrong. None of them were him, but I’d keep looking.

Some times I think I’ll just never get over you.