He is a boy in a man’s body.
Her father is a boy.
A beaten one.
An unloved one.
The boy hates himself.
There is no comfort in his own body as it outgrows him.
The shallowness broadens.
His parents left a void in him, he never got to know the cure.
Cruelty is tranferred from one generation to the other.
So she looks at him and tries to understand.
Pity and pain are constant companions.
The boy cannot be a father to her.
She raises herself and is attracted by men acting like boys.
Never realising that she deserves more.
This girl is not a mother.
This girl cannot provide self-love to the one who made her.
He draws her in.
His attention is sickening.
She is engulfed, glued to the cobweb that embalms his dysfunctional heart.
He keeps her there, deadening, her energy hanging by a thread.
We have to go through the same things, he preaches.
To feel one another.
He should know that his daughter can already feel things from afar.
He should know that this closeness sets her afire.
Her immobility brings him safety and comfort.
The envious boy, the fatherly prison guard.
Not realising that the daughter’s intensity destroys his bars and straitjackets.
That the fire he initiated, the daughter burst out of proportion, annihilates his cobweb.