Your father is still your father. Love him and forgive him as a young child.
The way you were in expectant, resolute delight of his arms around you.
Your father is still your father in his audacious crime of falling in love.
I, his Pygmalion’s statue, his muse, his mistress, his little goth whore,
you see me as nothing better than shit on your kitchen floor
before gathering round the ...
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