A letter from November 2nd, 2024

I miss you, Dad. Your old cologne still lingers everywhere; I longed for your care once again. I would be despicably harsh to myself if I said I am no longer scared of you, because I am. I am still, and I don't know when I will be able to forgive you and that bottle of liquor you have always told to love more than I am. My 7-year-old self remains getting intoxicated by these nightmares you have caused, yet I cannot wish to be the daughter of somebody else who wanted to adopt me. I feared that it might make me lose the thread of escaping from that haunted house where we used to live together. I believe right now I have lost my sanity. I wouldn't love to step at the doors of the heavens if it all means I have to leave you in hell. Envy runs through my veins now, Dad. I have never witnessed myself getting envious to have someone like somebody else's father. Most of them told me things and treat me like I am theirs, but the veil of me happened to question if how warm would it feel if those were spoken by you? I am all a clone of you but your monsters. I see you in front of the mirror, I hear your voice when I sing a song, and I resonate with your sentiments out of these blued-depressive corners of my life I believe you have also lived. I don't think I can ever blame you so I put it all to myself instead; I suppose you have had enough. But then, I miss you. Like an infant crying out of desperation to be heard and fed. I hope I can compel myself to admit your absence in my life even if you're all here existing. What went wrong, Dad?