#dad poem

[underneathasheetoflace]

[yelloeukulele]

Dear Tim,

I think I wanted you to be good

I wanted to look at you

And see a light in your eye

That mine had lost 10 years ago

I wanted to feel the warmth of the sun

In a smile you would direct towards me

I wanted to feel the comfort

Of a hug

From a father

To a daughter

And as I spiraled in my seat

Surrounded by the scent of sweetness and salt

Back lit by a window

Which held the reflection

Of a past version of myself

I could not face

In the fear of being blinded by possibilities stolen

I could not help but wilt

To tumble into the shadows

Of a little girl

Who once could only wonder

“Why?”

“Why did you leave?”

“Why was I not enough?”

“Why were we not enough?”

Not in the sense of abandonment she once held

But in a numb realization

That you were never

Ever

Going to change.

You got there late.

Claimed I looked the same

Then ignored me for the menu page

And as I say

Baited breath

Clenching fists to tight

I had almost a years worth of crescent moons imprinted in my hands

An hour went by

And then two

And three

And I suddenly realized I still couldn’t breath

I looked to you in hopes of catching your sight

That a smile could break the barrier

That you held between your lips

I did what I always do

I ran

And through the tears

That I let fall down the drain

While I hid in a women’s restroom

Wiping black streaks from my skin

Which smudge accordingly

I realize that even a conversation

After 15 years

Was too much to expect

Not because the idea is illogical

But simply because you are

I begin to chant

“I was enough.”

“She was enough.”

“They were enough.”

After many moments my breathing calms

My heart no longer palpitates

And I begin to reflect on this time shared

I think maybe the darkness that I saw in your eyes

The ones which so closely mirror mine

Is what told me that whatever pain

What ever sorrows and unanswered prayers

Which permiated your childhood

Sunk into your clothes

Into your skin

Into your hair

Were too much for you to bare

Maybe We had always be enough

But you never could be

In the silence at the breakfast table

One which sat miles away from each of us

I recalled how I read ever thought which went unspoken

their stories written inside the lines of their faces

Foreshadowing amongst the shadows held under their lashes

And worst

Was the dimness which had taken over once shining orbs on each side of button noses

I could see grief as if a tattoo

Permanently staining their skin

Whatever has happened to you

It must have been terrible

So horrifying

That even when given the brightest of smiles

The happiest of giggles

Of tiny feet

With tiny socks

And tiny shoes

You could do nothing but watch

As you pushed them as far into your own pain

As your own parents

Had pushed you into theirs

I have more in common

With the black coffee I drink

Than with the thought

That I could love you

That you ever loved me

That at one time I stayed up

And watched the moon

In hopes

You saw it too

And through those tears

That I let fall down the drain

While I hide in a women’s restroom

Having Wiped black streaks from my skin

Which smudged accordingly

I walk back to the dining room

Only to see you outside

Smoking gold from thin white paper

Which burns in slow embers

Quickly fading to pale ash

Releasing the loose smoke

And look at a table full of sympathetic smiles

I sit to read their stories

And come to the conclusion

That I did not come for him

But for those he is surrounded by

If I was not born the be his daughter

And him my father

Then at the very least

I can find comfort

In knowing

I was born

To be a sister

P.S.

I’m sorry I’m not your little girl anymore,

and I’m sorry you’re not a little boy anymore.

I’m sorry you were robbed from childhood

and I’m sorry you robbed it from them too.

However

Just because you were robbed

Doesn’t mean you had to Rob them too

I hope if you ever see this,

you understand what I am trying to tell you.

I hate who you were, and who you’ve become,

and I hate what you did to these children I never knew

I know I may never be a real sister to them,

but like me

I know you’ll never be their father too.

Best wishes,

your second daughter

Oh yea,

I know about keighley too.

[amindofaman]

This Kind of Morning

This kind of morning, should I grateful for For the serenity and focus I longed for

Beyond disrespect if I waste it For the thing that later I will regret it

[bigfatbreak]

Wait a minute…papa Tom doesn’t seem too hostile towards Nathalie. Or at least she doesn’t seem nervous/blackmailed. Does Tom not know her past allegiances or…is there an alliance in play?

Viceroy employs many in his arsenal, and as far as Nathalie is concerned, Tom is a coworker. :)

[tempestmothstorm]

crazy how the sanshee plush is one of the few actual direct confirmations on what a non-act 2 Natsuki’s home life is like because of how cagey she is on literally everything. Like this isn’t anything surprising or something you wouldn’t be able to extrapolate from the games but unlike everything else we know about her the implications are right there on the tin.

They literally did the character bio trope where where all the likes are normal but the dislikes are about their very specific trauma it’s just so funny they did that on the plushie card

[petrichara]

It’s October and nine years have passed. I say it’s dark, it’s cold, it’s a season of grief. I don’t know what I’m missing, don’t know what it means. I can’t imagine a life with you here. You’re something I feel, not someone I know; the hum of the house and nobody’s home. I don’t mean to be cruel, I don’t want to forget you. And I don’t want to see you in the lawn decor.

Still, the weather gets cold and you’re a creak in the knee. I’m sorry you’re a talking point, sorry you’re a myth. I miss you and I missed you. It’s all in the mist.

[aurorangen]

Time will heal the wounds Held deep in my heart But still leave the scars That are tearing me apart

[aphrodites-serenade]

Like Father, Like Daughter

When I look into the cracked mirror, I see the remnants of you. I hate how my nose is exactly like yours. I hope I can get it fixed one day. Your sister once said I had your eyes. You don't know how much I wished I could gouge them out. But you don't exist only on my face. I can feel it in my bones, and oh, they're too heavy for a girl. I hear it in my voice, and I speak as if I'm you. I run away from my problems, just like how you did years ago. Sometimes, I pretend they don't exist. You knew how to do that so well. Who was it that said that I was too loud? Did they not know it was the only way we communicated? Each time I stand in front of this mirror, I realize that I've become terribly lonely. My father never knew how to love, and I, who always messes up, know that too well. And I hate it, I truly hate it. I'm not my father, I'm not my father, I'm not my father, I repeat. But like father, like daughter goes the proverb… right?

[charzeewrites]

I hate my father, and I hate myself,

Because I am his daughter,

And therefore I am him.

[theycallmeinterstellar]

"Reminder that even if your parents aren’t proud of you if Tony stark found you he’d probably adopt you in two seconds flat"

OKAY SO WHERE IS HE? I NEED HIM, ALWAYS SAW HIM AS A FATHER FIGURE

[poempoetryandmore]

~i listened to you talk about the things you loved more than me, and never complained

[poems-of-the-anentomologist]

a haiku

I see him

the banana man

oh god fuck

[girl-that-wants-to-die]

[aphrodites-serenade]

My father is a small child in a man's body

I say a lot of things about my father. He's aggressive, dismissive, and self-centered. And yet I can't help but pity him. I see how his eyes look when he sits alone at the dinner table. This wasn't the life he envisioned for himself when he was a young man. He likes to say he doesn't need to prove himself to anyone but lies to his coworkers for validation. He puffs his chest and criticizes himself in the mirror. He swears it's a habit he wants to break. I'd like to think that that's what he sees when he yells at me and my brother. His father taught him that real men don't cry. I guess what I mean to say is that he's still a small child trying to be a man. He's failed. And I could try to hug him, give him the comfort he's never felt, but he'd push me away. He's a scared boy who doesn't know what he's doing here.