In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

I think I hate my father, too.

The ink on the story of my dad and me was dry. The book was shut.

That was who we were going to be forever, him and me—never close, never forgiven, never redeemed.

The real you—whoever she is—will get what she wants in the end

keeping my gaze trained on my feet, like I was eight years old again and embarrassed to exist.

Of course. Father-daughter time, that mysterious thing.

When I was younger, I would’ve given anything to have a conversation with him, have him take interest in me. But by now, through all our ups and downs, it just felt wrong, like an imposter living inside my dad’s skin.

The words cleaved me in half. Mrs. Rush, my favorite teacher—the one I felt surely saw me, recognized I was special—couldn’t remember I existed.

Your body has a knowing. Like an antenna, attuned to tremors in the air, or a dowsing rod, tracing things so deeply buried you have no language for them yet.

You are formally invited