Soft. Sissy. Switch hitter. Disappointment.

When I was younger, he used his fists to put me in my place. Now he uses words.

I spend my days chasing any distraction: Hanging out with my friends. Working at Clinton’s. Doing everything I can to tune him out.

I spend my nights trapped in my own mind: Replaying his rejection. Witnessing his disgust. Remembering how it felt to be shoved back into the closet.

I told my dad everything and begged him to help.

He told me I was asking for it with my smart mouth and my tight jeans.

It won’t be like this forever. I just need to survive the next ten months under his roof.

I know who I am. I know what I’ve overcome. I know who I want to be.

The thing I don’t know? If I’ll ever be able shake off the hold he has on me.