—father

i have grown

so tired

of feeling small,

of having my ambitions

looked down on

and my dreams mocked.

every condescending

wow, you’ve got big plans,

every empty

i’m sure you can do it

pierces my soul

like a knife.

i vowed to show them all

how wrong they were about me,

and i did.

i achieved everything

i said i would, and more.

and perhaps there were times

when i leaned a little

too willingly into

my spite as a motivator.

but i won’t lie and say that

it doesn’t feel good

when you accomplish something

they didn’t believe you could,

and you get to say

look at what i’ve done,

and fuck you.

i am the perfect example of

do as i say, not as i do—

i tell them to eat more,

to get in their three meals

each day, but i am lucky

if i even eat one.

it’s not purposeful as much

as it is a lack of time or caring,

which may be worse,

depending on how you

think about it.

i tell them they are beautiful,

to quit pinching stomach fat,

but then i do the same,

molding my soft thighs in my hands

and wishing for something different.

some days i am as hateful towards myself

as i have ever been, but i will not hear it

from them, will not hear a single

i shouldn’t eat today or

i hate how my body looks.

i will tell them how beautiful they are

with a conviction i am rarely able to give

myself, and sometimes they will point

that out to me; they will say

why is it that you cannot give this love

to yourself?

and i laugh and shake my head, say

do as i say, not as i do

to avoid admitting that i don’t have an answer

to give them.

i’m tired of writing about the same shitty guys,

the same ones who hurt me and made me cry all the time,

because they’re gone now; they’ve been gone for a while

and at this point, i’m just adding more poems to this pile

of repeat metaphors and lines and the same old shit

i’ve been saying for years, and i’m getting so sick

of finding myself writing the same damn lines

about pain and healing now that i’m finally fine,

so i’m done writing about the same shitty guys.

i’m done giving them my art and giving them my time.

it took four books and about eight years,

but i’ve finally grown weary of writing through tears,

so this one is for me and for me alone,

about my dreams and my joys and what i call home,

it’s about my soul, my body, my mind, my heart;

it’s the book where i finally take back my art,

and it’s about you all too and the way you will grow

as you get closer to loving yourself and just letting go

of the fears that you have or the grudges you carry—