still tree
The same old thing,
The knight in shining armor of a father,
Slowly loses his luster.
He spits, he fights, he hurts.
For as many times as we’ve laughed,
I’ve sat in my bed heaving.
When I passed four feet,
When I could articulate what was in my heart,
He turned away, displeased.
So I turn to the arms of another man,
The man with hair on his chest,
The man with nice cologne, clean hair.
Because he holds me the way my father stopped when I became tall.