Open Heart Surgery

My heart wasn’t broken by a boy who barely graced 5’8,

and wore Nike like it was going out of style,

while, coincidentally not being able to run the mile.

No.

My heart’s been broken for a while.

And I never even knew it,

but then again I was always very good at denial.

I should start at the beginning,

Because after all, without the game there is no winning,

and he always loved winning.

There is something else you should know,

this isn’t, “confessionals of another girl with daddy issues”, to go.

It’s so much more.

A new brand of war.

Where what you’re fighting for is the right to your own limbs.

Because there was no living in your own bones without him.

I always had an off-putting way of wanting to save myself.

And he always had an aggressive way of wanting to prove himself.

Have you ever watched a coward try to prove himself?

He doesn’t do it in your world, he creates his own.

He calls you his little girl, and then never comes home.

It’s strange really, how fast the word home became house.

Almost as fast as the silence turned to shouts.

It was 2 a.m,

and the clock was blurred by the shaking of my hand.

And I swear,

no one will ever break my heart as much as that man.

I tried to pick up the wreckage as I walked away,

but my heart never beat the same after that day.

It sounded like a muffled war cry,

the type that makes people wonder why I do things like,

try.

My father had open heart surgery.

How ironic can you be?

They cut him open,

and somehow,

the one with the broken heart is me.