Y.S.T.

Sometimes, I worry to myself that I'll never really know the man whose blood flows through mine, and that he'll fade quietly into the night, alone in his peninsula. And I worry even more not about how I will respond, but how I just may not. I don't really know my father, and I feel like I don't really know myself, and any of my subsequent actions or inactions are just some ruse to cover the ugly holes in the floor of my heart. I would think I'm numb, but that would require a little less feeling and a lot less tears. I'm not asking for pity. There's really no colorful language I can use to describe it, to pretty it up a bit and make myself seem more polished and fucking pristine. I hate talking about it because I refuse to make myself vulnerable and will never ever let anyone see me cry. I am cold, and it breaks my tight fisted heart that I know more about my father's ailments than I do his life. And I worry that I can never know myself, because I don't know who and what is inside of me. I wish this would stop, I really do, but how do you fill something that has no end? I don't know to whom I am speaking, and why I give two shits about where I place my prepositions right now, and why this seems to have manifested itself so quickly and abruptly. Fuck, I don't even know what "it" or "this" is. That's the scariest part.