One time you punched me in the face once as I was driving down the highway because you didn't like what I had said to you, or what you thought I was about to say.
You called me fat, told me I looked like a man, made me ashamed of my hunger and my body. I brought out a dress I wore one of those days and it was impossibly tiny. So small compared to the body I live in now. I cried and cried, and spent so much time apologizing to you for being something I wasn't. And now I am, and you are gone.
You made fun of me for idolizing my father, for always calling him first when I was in trouble. But I never could count on you to be there, answer your phone, be sober, care enough, know what to do.
The night I got in that car accident coming to see you, I was scared and drugged, and I begged you to stay with me. As soon as I feel asleep, you crept out and I woke up alone and disoriented.
You never cared enough.
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