what happens when your mothers tongue is tougher than a fist? I see more of myself in my father now than I ever did.

I don’t recall how distance came between us but in mirrors I tend to see it; in the reflection of a pint glass, the emptiness reminds me.

Stained glass vision from the intoxication. I always promised myself I would never turn into this. Pixelated morality, the lines are always blurry. I never see my smile clearly.

Funny how we always run into the things we are running away from. Where do I move forward from here?