I sat across from my dad.
Ask me anything, except I couldn't.
Because I knew the moment I'd ask about life, death, or even gender identity, you'd flare up like a SOS beacon. I didn't like your passion; especially when you talked shit about trans people. People like me.
I parted my lips to speak, but the questions that burned in me made a hissing sound at the tip of my tongue.
And I think about it now, remembering oh-so clearly about that moment, sitting by the fireside.
YOU ARE READING
Cerulean
Non-FictionMy thoughts, depression and short stories need a place to stay. (Trigger Warning: may potentially contain explicit content such as depression, suicide, substance abuse, etc.)
