Raw.

My Dad emailed me. Because I'm on his healthcare my mum tells him what's up with me. He wanted to know if I was okay, he wanted me to talk to him. I fucking snapped.
I wrote a poem which stoked the flames as poetic words and thinking so often do, and so, I headed off a letter and I started to write. I wrote to my dad about everything. All the bullshit he's done and all the pain he made me feel. I ripped open every single one of my wounds and now I just hurt. In a five page letter I cried for the last three, once my rage finally sputtered out and I was left with only the stupid, stupid sadness of it all. The glorious pointlessness of this bull-shit back and forth. Him and my mom, struggling for money, for power over the other. Me staying distant because I can, because that's what he said, because that's what's easiest. And him, realizing the length of time interpreted by "maybe when you're older" and grasping at time he's already thrown in the gutter. I am raw, I am numb. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
My mom wants me to go to therapy.




Fuck therapy.