Letter to the Musician who Made Me Call Him “Daddy”

Write one song for me. It doesn’t have to be an apology for all the times you kicked me to the floor, for all the ways you reduced me to something less than human. Write a song about how beautiful I am with my dirty-ocean-water eyes full of tears, with my decaying flowers mouth full of your rotten seed. In this music that you play with the same hands that held me against the wall by my throat, with the same mouth that spat insults at me as I labored towards your pleasure, you sound introspective, thoughtful. the perfect singer/songwriter. You sing about your broken heart, how you were wronged by women, as if any woman has any power over you, Sir. You call yourself, “the best thing I will ever get,” and I try to cover up the broken blood vessels in my face from self-induced vomiting, trying to rid myself of every trace of you that ever entered my once-clean body. Your voice doesn’t betray your cruelty. Your voice doesn’t betray your violence, desire, or shaming. You play the victim just like I do. I’d kill for your role. Only myself, though, and where’s the fun in that?


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