You want to erase father from your life, but that doesn't matter anymore. You can't change anything whether or not you write poems about father. Everything you do it will stay plain and dull, like the child you were, like the child you still are.

You own your body without even you realizing it. It's okay, though. Now I'm telling you that your ******* are yours, that your tongue is yours, that your lips are yours. Your flesh is yours, my dear. It has nothing to do with father's flesh. Only his DNA and mother's, that's all.

You know, your skin hasn't changed much. It's still pure and innocent, just like the finest fabric, just like an angel's. And you know, it's okay to remember your scars, it's still there to remind you something better than the tiny pop of blood vessels. Scars remind you that healing is a process, and not all red will stay red forever.