should fate dare to take you,
i would storm the heavens,
tear gods from their thrones,
and drown the western seas in their blood.

our love is not gentle.
we fight like tempests,
we bruise with words,
and yet..
i am always the fool who returns,
mouth bloodied, lungs burning,
to kneel at your voice,
and drink down your name as if it were water.

i love you more than the stars adore the sun,
more than the tides adore the pull of the moon.
you are gravity itself to me,
the law by which i rise and fall.

inside me, bone is scripture.
each rib carries your name scorched in gold,
a testament built of marrow and fire.
my heart is not mine
it beats in your image,
a sacred relic,
burning only for you.

every version of me,
through every turning of time,
would choose every version of you.
even the fiercest, most ruined self
would crawl through ash and teeth
to find you waiting.

you are my axis,
my altar.
ruinous beloved, i kneel before you.
let this be my oath,
if the world broke tomorrow,
i would drag its corpse to your feet
and whisper that i am still,
always,
yours.

i crawl back into the arms
that carved the bruises in my soul,
as if the same fire that scorched me
might keep me warm tonight.

he is all i have
the only voice in the silence,
the only hand to reach for
when the walls begin to cave.

so i swallow my pride,
my grief, my fury,
and beg the storm that breaks me
to be the storm that calms me.
i plead with the ocean that drowned me
to teach me how to breathe.

love should not feel like this.
yet it is the only language i understand.
i translate cruelty into comfort,
violence into shelter,
because his chaos
is the only place left to call home.

i never learned where else to run.
my family speaks in slammed doors,
my friends turn to shadows,
so when the night cuts deep,
i run back to him.
the knife and the hand that holds it.

he is both the wound and the bandage.
his words split me open,
yet it is his voice i cling to
when the shaking starts.
my hands remember only
the weight of his shoulders,
the rhythm of his breath.
the pain feels easier to bear
than the emptiness without him.

i tell myself stories.
that i can separate the man who shatters me
from the man who gathers me close.
but they are the same man,
the same heartbeat against my cheek,
the same eyes i search for
in every crowded room.

and it is a cruel comfort,
to beg the fire for warmth,
to press myself against the hands
that taught me how to flinch
and whisper the word “home.”

i tell myself love is meant to save,
but mine is only meant to survive.
so i fold myself into the fire,
let the smoke choke my lungs,
and pretend the burning is warmth.

because what else is there?
i do love him.
more than the breaking,
more than the scars etched into my heart.
and maybe that is the cruelest part.
if this is the only shelter i will ever know,
then let it be ruin.
let me learn to sleep inside it.

because it has to be him.
it will always be him.
it is him in the breaking,
him in the ashes,
him in the ruin i call my life.

and god help me
i don’t know how
to want anyone else.

the silence around me now feels louder
than their voices ever did.
it presses in on me,
fills the corners of the room
until i can’t tell if it’s the air or me
that feels so heavy.

i sit,
staring at the hundreds of games i own,
lined up like memories i don’t remember,
stories i can’t step into anymore.
every cover asks me who i am,
and i don’t have the answer.

i scroll.
i cry.
i pace.
all these motions,
but none of them lead anywhere.
i’m trying to taste the version of myself
that wasn’t always so hollow,
but she feels like a stranger now
someone i used to know
and lost along the way.

i open games.
close them.
open them again, expecting something to change.
searching for myself in loops,
like maybe if i click enough times,
i’ll stumble into a spark of who i used to be.
but my screen only reflects a face back at me, my face,
and even that feels borrowed.

just my own heartbeat,
and the echo of nobody.
and god, alone?
even saying it out loud
feels exhausting.

but maybe this is what being okay is
sitting with the hollowness,
staring into the shelves of things i thought i loved,
empty palms waiting,
open hands aching,
hoping one day they’ll close around something
that feels like me again.

my dad didn’t walk out
he just stopped showing up
and called it love.

“i don’t think he meant to hurt you”
my mom says one night over cold takeout
her voice tired like she’s run this loop before

she has.

“you know how he is”
she says it like it’s supposed to make sense
like that kind of sentence has ever held me

i don’t want to argue with her
not her
she was there when he wasn’t
she held the pieces he never saw break
but still
she tries to excuse the man.

“he worked a lot” she adds
“things were complicated”

and i want to scream
i was a child. not a complication.

she picks at her food
like maybe she can find the right words
buried somewhere between the grains of rice

i let the silence stretch long
almost cruel
trying to read her face to my best ability.
working my eyes around her stress riddled face.

“i know you’re trying to defend him”
i say eventually
“but i don’t think he ever tried for me”

she winces
but she doesn’t deny it

that’s the closest thing to validation i’ll ever get.

he used to know how to smile
used to know how to carry me
until i got too big
or he got too small in other ways

we didn’t stop talking all at once
it was a slow erosion
like sand slipping under me.
one day i looked behind me and realized
he wasn’t holding my hand anymore.

he argued more than he listened
corrected more than he cared
and when i tried to reach out
he treated me like a stranger
accusing him of something unprovable

i learned who he really was in whispers
affairs
lies
his actions and inactions

and suddenly every cold moment made sense

he is trying now
a little.
half thought texts
casual invitations

like we’re peers who lost touch
not a father and daughter
with history caked in dust and silence

but i’m older now
the door i waited at for years
has rotted off its hinges
and i’ve turned my back to it.

i no longer sit at the threshold hoping he will return.

i don’t want what he’s offering
now that it’s easy to give.

i don’t want to sit across from him
pretending there was never an absence.

i don’t want to teach him
how to be what he was supposed to be
before i knew how to speak.

i say i don’t have a father
and when people ask..
i don’t explain

because i’m done explaining.
done hoping.
done shaping myself into someone
he might finally pick.

i paint a portrait of him anyway
it’s not beautiful
but it’s honest..

i sign only my name in the corner
he didn’t earn the right to be credited

sometimes i still dream of him
of who he could have been
of the version that showed up

and when i wake, i’m disgusted
by the small girl who still hasn’t learned
her dad changed some time ago.

even in my dreams
he’s already walking away

so i stopped calling
stopped chasing

dad is not his name.
not anymore.

and i am not his to claim.

i was small when you chose me.
a ribbon tied beautifully around my neck,
shaking in a box
the sun too bright for my eyes.
you smiled,
and i mistook it for kindness.
my forever home.

i learned quickly
that love can wear faces.
that hands can come down hard and still call it discipline.
that food is not promised, even if you sit.
even if you beg.
even if you try to be the best boy.

the chain outside never rusted faster than my hope did.
i stopped barking for help when no one came.
just curled tighter,
colder,
quieter.

you taught me fear by name.
it was yours.

when i peed on the carpet,
it wasn’t defiance.
i just couldn’t hold it anymore.
you never let me out.
but you held my head down like my lungs were made to drown.
and i thought,
maybe this is what love feels like to monsters.

you forgot to name me.
so i named myself sit.
so i named myself stay.
bad dog.

i chewed the furniture once
not to destroy,
but because no one left me toys,
and my teeth ached with the loneliness of growing.

do you remember when i licked your hand after you hit me?
i do.
i thought maybe if i gave you all of my love,
yours might finally stay.

they say dogs are loyal.
but what they mean is:
“we forgive the unforgivable
with our tails still wagging.”

i would’ve died for you.
but you made me live like this instead.

and now i sleep in silence
a small grave behind the shed,
where no one visits.
where no one remembers.
but i remember.

i remember everything.

and still,
i hope your next dog knows only warmth.
and that if ghosts have teeth,
mine are dull.

because i only ever wanted to be good.
even if you never said i was.

born into a family,
where resolve meant escape,
through silence or withdrawal.

the distance between love and pain,
a retreat from what we couldn’t face.

raised in the cold embrace of unspoken words,
where hearts were shields,
and love was buried beneath layers of pride.

they veiled their emotions,
masked in stoic faces,
refusing to show the ache that ran deep.

the flower they nurtured,
once bright, once tender,
pushed aside by their own selfishness and greed.

each petal lost to neglect,
each thorn sharp with their disregard.

the love they could not give
left a void where warmth should have been.

feelings, cold as ice,
the flower frosted over,
but inside, deep within its trembling heart,
it bore the weight of every feeling that they could never speak
and every tear they never shed.

within that fragile bloom,
i felt it all.
their anger, their sorrow,
their fear, their joy,
and the overwhelming silence
that drowned out any chance of peace.

i became the keeper of their unspoken words,
the one who felt everything they could not.
the weight of their unsaid love,
the burden of their unshared grief,
all carried in a heart too full,
too overwhelmed by emotion.

and though I learned to hold it all,
this tangled web of feelings,
i became a vessel,
overflowing,
caught between the unspoken coldness
and the warmth I longed to give.

deprivation on a fathomless level.
a hunger deep within me, unseen and untold,
i yearn to be sought after, cradled, cherished.

embraced like the soft delicate petals of a flower.

my core; soft, and tender, like the warmth of dusk.
craving a touch that nurtures and sustains.
yet my exterior, rugged, and untamed.

a tempest forged in fire, burning with desire.

i am not the monster i paint myself to be,
nor the cold, unfeeling creature i pretend to wear.
i hide behind a scowl, thick as armor,
but behind it, my heart trembles, raw and bare.

i long for a connection, to feel a hand,
not just to be touched, but to be truly seen.

the  fire within me is not to destroy,
but to illuminate the path to love and understanding.

why, then, do i push away the warmth i need?
why do i wear this mask, unyielding and cruel?

i wish to be loved, to be held in the light
but i flicker alone, too dim for their sight.