sometimes I think my dad knows.
sees the lifelessness in my eyes,
sees the pain inside of me.

but how do I ask?

"daddy, do you see me?"

he'd probably say something like
"sure, possum, I see you.
you're beautiful and smarter than most people I know, even adults."

wrong.

he'd never understand the depth of the question.
too naive, too oblivious.
not like me at all.
so I wait.
one day he'll bring it up.
one day, I'll deny it again.
but this time,
to my own blood.