what a sick coincidence
some cruel ******* joke
crafted by the god
he so desperately believes in


why would he want me
when he has two daughters
one he’s molding into everything
i refuse to become


the other still clings to his shadow
like it’ll keep her warm
telling me to be more forgiving
as if he ever earned a single ounce of grace


where was he when i needed a father
not a ghost with loud opinions


he disappeared
then returned
acting like he deserved applause for showing up late
to a life he walked out on


you don’t get to pick which parts of me you accept
and still try and call it love


i’m done pretending this day holds any weight
that it means anything more
than a simple *******


i made it without you
and that is the only thing
worth celebrating

my birthday falls on father’s day...
how poetic

for a man
who gave me life
but never showed me how to live it

and when he came back
he still wasn't really there

he doesn't like who i am
as if love should come with conditions

i learned how to raise myself
from the ruins they left behind

funny...
how father’s day reminds me more
of what i survived than what i celebrate

i don’t want to be invisible
but i don’t want to be seen
as anything less than broken

anything less than sick

when you shrink back
i pull in too
matching silence with silence
hunger with hunger

i measure myself
against the shape of you
against the quiet you carry

and anger rises
knowing you might be
more broken than me
knowing i could lose
this invisible race

i chase the sickness
not for their eyes
not for sympathy

but because if i’m not sick enough

then what am i

something small
something weak
something easy to forget

and that hurts
more than any wound

i am only real
when my pain
holds weight
when it matches
the shadow
you cast beside me

my brain
whispers knives

“leave now,”
it says,
“before they see
the cracks,
before you break
them too.”

it tells me
they’d be better off
without me
a storm
they don’t need
to weather.

and even when
i know it’s a lie,
even when
their arms
hold me
like i’m worth
something

the voice still screams,
and my mouth
itches
to spit poison,
to push them away
before they leave me.

i’m learning
to hold my tongue,
to hold my heart,
to quiet the noise
that tries to pull me under

but some days
i still feel
too broken
to stay.

jesus christ seems super nice

but only
when i’m begging for mercy,
when my hands are empty
and the quiet
hollows out my chest.

the name slips through cracks
a whisper trailing close,
like footsteps
in a house i don’t recognize,
a light flickering
just beyond reach.

and even as i turn away,
it calls again
the sound that lingers
when all else
has slipped away.

jesus christ seems super nice

but only
when i’m sad.

they say
“get better first.”
as if being
trapped
in the wrong shape
isn’t part
of what’s killing me.

i try to explain
that this body
feels like
a punishment,
not a vessel.

but they want
perfect answers,
perfect mental health,
perfect coping skills—
before they’ll give me
permission
to be real.

i hate
what stares back at me.
i hate
that i need a prescription
to be seen.

& i’m scared.
i’m scared of the mirror.
i’m scared of testosterone.
i’m scared
i’ll still be
wrong
even after.

because what if
i never look
like him?
like me?

but even more—
i’m scared
i’ll never get the chance
to try.

& that’s what breaks me
over
and
over
again.

i don’t
want to need
a pill
to feel
like a person.

i don’t
want to hate
my brain
for being
this way.

but i do.

i do.