It's cruel, when you come home to leftovers, and upon finishing them, take a shower, and lay on your bed, having a crap of a conversation, as it is when both voices are tired, and your father wakes, comes in and switches off the lights, in a bid to get your attention, and upon getting it, says, "I haven't eaten dinner yet, you know, I was waiting for you, because you said, to wait." Thereupon he turns on the lights again, because you were annoyed he did that, before he said that, and hearing which your gut is pierced through and through, you get a sick feeling in your stomach, and you run off after him into the bedroom, asking why he waited, when you told your sister not to wait, and he repeats the horrid words, because you said to wait, and you feel sick to the core of your soul again, you hug him and says sorry, over and over, but what are apologies in times like these, but empty words, resonating in the futility of a crater, and you know nothin' matters anymore, because he burrows deeper and says, I want to sleep now.

It's cruel. Cruel.

Sicker, still--when you wonder if he did it all in spite, if, in fact, he did have dinner after all. You wonder how he can say, so matter of factly, that you told your sister, but not him, when all of them are eating together. You wonder if it's right, will you be struck down and die, if you think your father petty, incredulous. Sicker, sicker, still, you remember times he drove you miles and miles, times he loved you, ... sick! Sick! Why did I say 'loved'.

Sucks, sucks. Days like these, you just feel like fuck.