It wasn’t always like this– a constant bloodshed with misery as the only victor. I used to think my father hung the constellations and chased the moon away when I feared the night. And then I grew up, grew out of my porcelain skin and faced the world, the bleeding, gritty ugliness of it, filled with demons my father could neither understand nor save me from, and the night leaked over all my days, dark, dark, dark. And then the yelling began because it’s hard to save what you can’t control. And above all, my father loves to be a hero. And above all, I refuse to be ensnared, refuse to be caged with the monsters that terrorize my every waking moment, the monsters made completely of me, of my skin, of my mind. I’m sorry, Daddy, I know you’re trying. I’m sorry, Daddy, but I must face this alone.
Emily Palermo
