Giraffes

Alone

At night I sometimes think about him. I think about how he made me feel happy. How he made me feel wanted. Even though I know I am not wanted or special at all.

"It's ok," I hear him tell me.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and I wonder what I am. My father reproduced with himself so I should be a giraffe. But I am not. I know that for sure.

It is a struggle to get through the doorways. People always seem to make them smaller and smaller.

Or maybe I am getting larger and larger.

I feel sad all the time now. And it is not good.

My only happiness was stolen away from me. And all that is left is an empty shell.

I sometimes wonder why I am here.

Father made me feel like I had a purpose. But he is gone, as I said before.

I often dive into the deep end of the pool and have deep thoughts like these.

I keep thinking of when he died.

The hobo beating me with the stick.

The brown stick. It was hard and it hurt when it hit me.

The hobo.

I needed revenge.

My new purpose in life was to kill that hobo. I would do whatever it took to avenge my father.

I started eating healthy.

I lost weight.

I could fit through the doorway again.

I lifted weights.

I got lots of mussculls.

I was strong.

I knew nothing could stop me.