Dear dad,
Since you died, I can't stop feeling your hand on the back of my neck. That tiny, threatening squeeze has lingered for a month. I can feel the warmth of your face close to mine as you explain the way the world works. "I'm such a nice guy. Everyone gets along with me. If you don't get along with me then something is wrong with you. I haven't done anything wrong. No one is going to believe you because I'm so nice."
I can't even depersonalize to get rid of the feeling on my neck because it's buried somewhere in my lizard brain that danger is imminent. What danger! You're fucking dead! You can't tickle me until I can't breathe and can no longer beg you to stop. You can't squeeze my arm and pin me to your side. You can't make vague but plausibly deniable threats about my sexuality. You can't tower over me, screaming in my face, about how you could beat me, a tiny blip less than one-sixth your weight, if you really wanted to. You can't berate me for flinching. You can't punch me and pretend you never laid a hand on me. You can't pit me against my siblings. You can't make up any more lies.
You can't waste all the household money on your latest hobby or project so Mom's forced to use her savings on the mortgage or the phone bill or the gas. You can't keep me up at night screaming at mom about how it's all her fault the money is gone, that no one else will love her like you do, that she wants to leave so bad, she can just go. You can't shove books at me about eugenics or how men can barely control themselves. You can't brag about how magnanimous you are to buy me glasses. You can't punish me for not being happy.
You shouldn't be able to hurt me from the fucking grave.
Leave me alone,
Your daughter, the ugly one