stickseasonboy

[stickseasonboy]

“i have my father's nose.”

i have my father's nose

i have come to love it as my own;

yet, looking in the mirror brings the

same aching pain.

it's long and slender with a bump

on the bridge.

it slopes in the same spots his does.

though i have claimed it as my own,

it's still his.

i have my father's laugh;

it's loud and hearty and carries.

it gets raspy towards the end.

and sometimes, when i laugh,

i do not hear myself; i hear him.

and alongside him, i hear the

rage and disgust and anger.

and yet, i have my mother's eyes;

they're kind and warm and inviting.

they bring comfort to my friends,

it shows my joy and my sadness

as clearly as glass.

it is not my father's smile,

cunning and unsettling.

it is my mother's.

i have my mother's love;

it flows freely from me,

i give it to others, though i often

struggle to spare a drop of it

for myself.

it is not my father's love,

full of conditions and control,

it is my mother's.

for all my mother's faults,

for all the times i felt lost and

alone, she has given me the

things that matter the most.

i have my father's nose,

but i have my mother's love.

[stickseasonboy]

i'm curled into myself on the tile floor, grasping at anything and everything around me. i don't remember how i got here but i do remember why i'm here

[stickseasonboy]

he grew into a time where this was unnatural — heavily frowned upon, thought of with disgust, considered a disease. i can only hope that he can see how freely we all live, how loudly and openly we share the deepest parts of ourselves with whoever will listen. sharing the culture with the people around us, learning from the sparse older generation of us that share their insight and experiences. and i can only hope that wherever his soul resides, he can breathe.

somewhere in the depths of northern california, he rests. and i can only hope that wherever his soul resides — in heaven, wandering the earth, still within his chest ; that he sees me. and knows that if the rumors were true, his legacy lives on.

[stickseasonboy]

somewhere in the depths of northern california, he rests. and i can only hope that wherever his soul resides — in heaven, wandering the earth, still within his chest ; that he sees me. and knows that if the rumors were true, his legacy lives on.

[stickseasonboy]

i hate how much resentment i still hold towards my father. i hate how i still allow that hatred and rage to sit in my soul like a gaping, open wound that won’t close or scab over. i hate that he still holds so much weight in my life. i hate that there are parts of him that i see in myself. i hate that i have to forgive him for the things he won’t apologize for.