Dad, you breathe yet you died the day I finally found myself. I started living and grieving at the same time, like some final cruel punishment for finally giving up on you. I hoped on promises I knew were already broken, like an idiot. I kept hoping. But you died. And I finally accept that. I wish I could say you're not the same man I was when I was six, that you were better back then, but you've always been like this. It took me awhile to accept that maybe you were never cut out for this. Healing is realising I didn't deserve a thing you put me through. In a way im grateful, you made me kind through torture, made me compassionate through abuse. You made me maddeningly optimistic because surely without you in my life, tomorrow will be infinitely better. I endured, I grieved, and I accepted. That taste in my mouth, salt and sweat, that texture. The sickening warmth. I remember, it took me awhile, but I remember everything, and it haunts me. I wonder, does it haunt you too?