Sometimes I think Dad is trapped in

the sound of his truck leaving

at 6 a.m., before anyone is awake.

Other times, I know he’s trapped

in the bottle lying beside his

chair—the one with the dent from

sitting so long, for so many years.

The one he’d yell at anyone else for sitting in,

because it was his.

When people say, _“I’m sorry for your loss,”_

I start to feel sick inside.

_My_ loss.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

I hate having.

I told my brother that, after he asked

what happened to all the things

in my apartment.

I hate the possessiveness of it all.

When Mom talks about Dad,

she calls him _“your father.”_

And I always hate that.

_Yours_—like I own him or something.

Like I have him still.

I panicked once and ended up

in the hospital, with blood

down both my arms.

The nurses talked to Mom

about other hospitals they could send me to,

said it was necessary to get help

to save my life.

And I yelled at them, told them

it’s not _my_ life—it’s just life,

and I never asked for it.

Nowadays, people call me crazy.

Say I’m not okay.

That there are things wrong

with my brain that need fixing.

I tell them I don’t understand anything

anymore. And now, all things make me sick