Ugh

When I was young
Father meant comfort--
Getting down on one knee
to button the jacket
that was a puzzle to my
fragile
fingertips.

Sometimes what should be
and what is
are never paralleled.

But when I look into the mirror
all i see is you.
Reflecting past mistakes,
hoping we are granted
another try.

And here we are
Everyday inhaling insecurities
Like oxygen.
Following the path
we were told
would lead us to success.
I'm stuck writing these stories
you know so well.

In reality father
means you.
Sitting back.
Relaxing.
Coors number 6
fingertips at the edge
of hate.

Too angry at failure
to button up my heart
in a ribcage too open.