Dear daddy, I’m not your daughter

Well, maybe parts of me are. My mother used to tell me I was too serious and manipulative. School teachers said that I liked to play the system. My girlfriend told me that I have evil eyes. You told me that you’re always thinking and I always do too.
But daddy, I’m not your daughter.

Well, maybe parts of me are. I am a womaniser. I am a fatist. I hate authority. I have an addictive personality. I make promises I can’t keep. I gamble and drink and smoke too much.
But daddy, I’m not your daughter.
Maybe one day I will be the daughter you’d be proud of.
I’ve yet to keep my girlfriend hostage. I’ve yet to dictate what she does or does not wear. I’ve yet to throw her down a flight of stairs only to drag her back up and kick her down again. I’ve yet to leave her nose scarred from trying to bite it off. I’ve yet to hold her over a bridge. I’ve yet to play with acid. I’ve yet to stalk her family and throw boulders through their windows. I’ve yet to leave her to get new teeth. I’ve yet to leave her to get her ribs fixed.

She’s yet to feel the need to abscond to a different country to seek a safe haven. She’s yet to live in a hostel with no fixed address. She’s yet to live with depression and PTSD and too scared to leave the house.

Daddy, I’m not your daughter.
Maybe one day I will reach my full potential. Maybe if I have a child I will reach my full potential.
Maybe if I had a child I’d kidnap them. Maybe if our faces were painted over national newspapers and maybe if my blurry mugshot was played on the evening news, you’d be proud of me. Maybe when their uncle dies on their birthday, I’d tell them their present is slowly burning on a low heat. Maybe that’ll make you proud.
Do you know who the fuck I am?
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Lots of Love,
Not Your Fucking Daughter.

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