think my father hates me
or maybe he just detests
the way i trap hearts like flies
and i don't call back, even when they beg
for a chance to be alive again
him & i
we rise together with stormy eyes
and bipolar tendecies

i hate him too
the way he sits there in his unflourishing dependency
on conspiracy theories and how meds will **** me

so we sit in the tint of blue on a couch that's
barely made for two.
the house is now broken down
with ivy trees that can see into my history.
it eats me alive and speaks whispers of things i cant believe.
it says, "baby don't you know... nostalgia is disgusting,
especially when you can't see what i see."
so i ask her what she can see.
ivy. the envious torture of it all. and i leave like i always do. in a pile of ash, guts, and a couple "*******'s"