entry two

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ENTRY TWO:

AT THE INTERSECTION OF HEARTBREAK AND GRIEF

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This is where it begins — at the intersection of heartbreak and grief.

This is what it begins with — a broken wrist, and a fractured heart; a frayed hospital blanket, and an empty chair. Four seemingly unrelated items that serve as the first strike, the soft shove to bring me closer to the edge.

Here's the thing, Ford. I am not — at least I try not to be — a bitter person. I do not keep my grudges under my pillow to mull over each night. I do not bite down on my tongue only to let the taste of my own blood mar my thoughts. I try to let things go, but there are some things (try as we might) we can never let go.

My father is one of them. When I close my eyes, I see him as a twisted version of myself, as a product of neglect. Dark hair coats his ivory skin like morning dew on grass; eyes the color of charcoal flicker around aimlessly.

He is not a bad person. No, he pays his taxes, holds open heavy oak doors, and is quite punctual. He is simply a bad father. He does not know how to hold his child, a product of himself, without sucking the youth out of her veins.

He does not know how to wrap his arms around her frail body without crushing. He is not a man made to be a father. An engineer, yes; a doctor, sure; an astronaut, why not? But a father — a father who nurtures and a father who loves — is someone he'll never, ever be.

But we would not know this if he hadn't attempted to father.

His attempt was a short one, a quick sojourn in the realm of parenting. He patched up external wounds with stiff smiles and generic bandages, held onto the backseats of crimson red bicycles, but he never once could heal even the smallest of internal wounds; he could never once hold onto his daughter as though she was more than just another person.

He had left when I was young, before I could taste even the smallest drop of fatherhood on my tongue. My mother used to say he was too busy, too many places to go, too many people to see; but I know the truth, Ford.

Because a few years ago, he reappeared.

He stayed for a little longer this time, loved a little more, and for a split second, I thought that this was how my life would stay. I thought that he would stay.

He doesn't.

After my wrist nearly splits in two, I wake up in a hospital. My father is not there.

I do not have much to say on this topic, for the more I say the less my heart will beat, and the colder the blood in my veins will get.

This is what you need to know about my father:  he is a series of broken promises and ruptured dreams. He is the reason my heart is forever an open wound; he is the reason I do not breathe the same air as everyone else, for he took it from me each time he left.

Kira


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dedicated to intravenously whose writing is like music and soft rain and all good metaphors

a/n: hi all! here's my not-as-late-as-usual update! i really hope you all enjoy this chapter, for i really enjoyed writing it. my goal is to update once every two weeks, if not every one, so good luck to me.

also, also, also thoughts on Kira??? on this entry specifically?? i love reading all of your comments + almost always respond, so post one below! <3

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