is what it feels like, being like this. fifteen years out from the weight of him, of marbles on the nightstand, of thinking about fairly odd parents while he moaned. ten years out from all my belongings in three black trash bags across state lines. five years out from the taste of a glock in my mouth and a letter that would destroy his life if i decided to end mine.

lucky for him, the sun was pretty that day.

i know the shape of myself through other men's hands who wish they could've been him, men who are reverent and dismissive all at once. can't have me thinking im special, can't have me running away. but i taste their desperation through the sick bravado they call themselves daddy with. plead me to say it back and mean it. you're never as small as when you're trying to be big.

it's sweet, it's cute, in a pathetic way. and if i like that? well. no one can say i didn't earn my sadism the honest way.