God Is Dead. And So Are You.

Happy British Father’s Day, Pa-

Iechyd da to the man who taught me

how to vanish while still sitting at the dinner table.

To the man of God

who forgot his firstborn kids.

How Christ-like of you.

Devoted.

Born again.

You called it.

Like life gives you

That option when

You put your dick in

And didn’t

Want what came out

9 months later.

Did you confess?

Bow low into the armpit of your decaying

Soul?

I was twelve when you stopped showing up.

Old enough to know the violence of the man

we call men.

Too young to know how much damage

they would do.

Your church.

Your pride.

Your goddamn image.

Amen.

You’re a deacon now.

A shepherd of lost souls, you believe.

How’s that working out?

Do they know you practiced on your own?

They say kids abandoned at birth

wonder what was so wrong with them.

But me?

You knew me.

You held me.

You called me smart and funny and yours—

and then walked on water.

Until we drowned.

So, what was it, Dad?

What did you see that made you turn?

You weren’t some absent myth.

You were there—

and then you weren’t.

And that makes me the punchline

in your ungodly prayer.

So yeah.

Thanks for the abandonment issues.

The trust problems.

The whiplash belief that love leaves when it wants—

Slicing into me like a

cilice.

A penance

you created.

Did you know?

Or was I just co-lateral

In your escape plan?

Thanks for the psalm.

A lesson learned:

how to disappear while pretending to be holy.

I just disappear now.

A nothing to nobody.

Just in case.

You’re all the same.

I hope the sermons are good.

I hope the pews are full.

And the new wife you

found to fuck

is your saviour.

Or whatever.

But honestly?

I don’t.

I hope your holy book

burns in your hands.

I hope your holy book

melts in the flames.

I hope that one day,

I’ll be cleansed.

That I won’t look for you

when I see River

with their dad.

A man.

Real and

true.

Not a rhyming effigy

Of a martyr sold out,

The one who stayed for the ride,

I pray to Gaia that,

One day I won’t wonder

what it might have been.

Who I might have become.

If I didn’t loathe Father’s Day

And all the amens,

It misrepresents.