I don’t even know what to call you anymore, except by your first name, because it feels like we’re merely strangers passing each other by like the wind on a cold autumn evening.
I can’t look at you anymore, not only because I don’t want to, but because I physically can’t.
You can’t look at me, because I display every wrong thing you’ve done in your life.
I am your disappointments in its flesh and the pain in your weak heart.
Now that I’ve written it down, the word seems almost foreign to someone like you,
and me, because you’ve done nothing to show me you’ve got one.
Father, I want this letter to be sort of personal, so this one time I won’t pronounce your name with disgust, but lie through my teeth and whisper the word “father” gently, making you believe it comes from deep inside of
When you glance at me, do you see what you’ve done?
You haven’t created me, God forbid, no. You’ve simply destroyed me into the person I am today.
Poetry flows through me like the endless bad memories I have of you.
Bad: I only have horrendous things left of you.
And I don’t want to be the one to tell you how to behave since you’re supposed to be the grown-up, and I’m simply trying to survive, but even in this state of mine, I’m more of a fucking human than you could ever be.
You don’t, father, have the right to lift your hand to silence what you refuse to hear.
You can’t oppress your own flesh and blood, because we’ve got a voice and I’ll make damn sure we use it.
You can’t touch me the way you touched my brother.
He is strong, he is a warrior and I have taught myself to follow in his footsteps.
You dare lift your hand at me again and I will scream bloody murder and fight back like I’ve been taught to.
You will not touch me with your hideous words or your heavy hands.
You always told me I should find a man like you.
The thought alone amuses, yet terrifies me.
I will go my entire life searching for the exact opposite of you.
If my husband touches me, or insults me, or abuses me in any way, I will not keep quiet the way you made my mother learn.
I will break my own hands before hitting my child.
And then, I will divorce the man who even thinks about touching my children.
My heart may weigh me down, but you’re a terrible excuse for a human being, and I knew somewhere deep down that I never truly loved you.
I never got the chance to.
Maybe I was intuitive from a young age, plus I’ve never been ignorant.
Maybe I’ve had an epiphany and realised you can’t treat your wife and your kids like trash and expect to get away with it.
They’re telling me to forgive you and that it was a mistake, but people are supposed to learn from their mistakes.
And I hate holding grudges, but I will never get over the fact that there’s still a mark on my right shoulder, because of you.
I’m not rude for being honest.
I am done silencing myself.
I am done quivering in the corner, waiting for you to get bored.
You will not touch me, because I am human before I am ever your daughter and you are a disgrace before you are ever my damn Father.
And I knew, deep down, I never truly loved you.
I don’t think I ever will.
PS. I may not deserve better, but your wife, and my mother, deserves more than you.
Submitted to ArtParasites by yagmur