Dear Old Dad

I am waiting for you to die. 

Your own daughter is going through life half hoping every morning that that day is the day she hears that she’ll never have to hear your voice or see your face again. 

Some people are so wildly confused by that, but no one who knows you or a fraction of what you’ve done would be.

I’ve had more than one person who loves me ask where exactly you are with a shotgun in hand.

The gentlest, kindest souls have mused about you rotting.

Why is what you did to me before I had the words to describe it not enough damage? Why do you have to keep calling? Why do you keep trying to twist every knife and open every wound? Are you hoping that some day I’ll finally snap and come end it for you? Is this attempted abuser suicide by victim?

I’m never going to become a monster like you. So come on. Call every birthday and use the wrong daughter’s name in a voicemail. Call every Father’s Day and jerk off after the beep. Call every Christmas and remind me that the thing I’ve asked the universe for every year still hasn’t come to pass. 

You’re in your 80s. You may be a cockroach, but your time is coming eventually.

I am waiting for you to die. Happy Fucking Father’s Day.