It’s the same as it’s ever been.
Shadows, lurking, avoiding eye-contact.
Nothing is different. He still wants to stand at the head of every molehill triumphant,
holding up my severed head for his imagined army. He is, Commander
General, King, God Himself. Eyes closed
to everything but his twisted desire to
control. A small man,
small in mind,
unfettered by a thing called love.
A man I have to call Father.