If you asked me about my dad,
I'd say: I have no feelings.
But ask again,
When the world's quiet and I'm not pretending.
You'd hear something darker.

You'd hear it dripping-
like blood from a wound that never scabs.
A river pulsing beneath skin,
thick and black with resentment,
hatred and history.

I hate him for the childhood he stole,
for turning lullabies into sirens,
for turning "home" into a battlefield
where I tiptoed between explosions.

He didn't hit me with fists-
his weapons were louder.
Verbs that sliced,
Sentences that bruised,
A dictionary full of destruction.
I was six and already knew how to flinch
Before certain words left his mouth.

There were the other lessons.
The ones I never signed up for.
Anatomy taught in shadows,
in whispers that should've been screams.
eyes forced open to things
No child should have to see,
like stumbling into a room
Painted in moans and shame.

So I learned early:
Love looked like exposure,
affection sounded like commands.
And by the time I hit my teens,
I was fluent in brokenness.
I wore seduction like armor,
Used my body to ask questions
that no one ever answered.
Promiscuous-not because I wanted to be-
but because it felt like the only language
my childhood taught me

And still...while shattered,
I had to stand strong.
For my mother-
Who cried behind closed doors.
For my sister-
Whose eyes asked for safety.
So I hardened.
Became the spine of a family with no backbone.
Became the therapist I never had,
The shoulder I never leaned on.
I was the glue,
and no one noticed I was cracking.

My mindset matured
like fruit forced to ripen in a storm.
No sunshine,
No soil-just survival.
I was twelve going on thirty-five,
Smiling at school like homework mattered,
While carrying secrets like bricks in my chest.

But underneath the hate,
The defiance,
The bitterness-
There's grief.

A sadness that feels like fog
A mourning for the man he could've been
For the dad I invented in dreams
But never met in real life.
For the gentleness I never knew
and the stability I craved.

And now-
I stand here with my rage folded
Neatly beside my sorrow.
Because I know:
he was a child once, too.
Maybe he never got a childhood either.
Maybe his demons had names
or hidden rooms nobody knew

So if you ask me about my dad,
I'll say:
I have no feelings.
But the truth is stitched
Across every scar I carry.
Truth bleeds.
It rages.
It forgives-
Slowly, unevenly
And one day, maybe,
It heals.