Fuck you on Father’s Day.
Happy Father’s Day.
Or maybe more accurately: fuck you.
Fuck you to the man who never deserved to be called a father. The man whose job was to protect me, love me, and keep me safe—but instead became the person I needed protection from.
Fuck you for stealing my innocence. For taking something that should have been mine to give freely when I was ready, not something taken from me by the one person in this world who was supposed to guard it.
Fuck you for the lies. For protecting your reputation instead of your child. For making me carry shame that was never mine. For making me question myself, my worth, and whether people truly care about me or are simply being kind.
Fuck you for the physical pain, the emotional pain, the mental scars, and the nightmares that still follow me. Even in death, you still find ways to hurt me. You still show up in memories I never invited. You still take up space in places where I wish there was peace.
And fuck Father’s Day for reminding me of everything a father should have been and everything you chose not to be.
The only comfort I have is knowing you will never hurt another child again.
As for me, I’m still here. Still healing. Still surviving. Still fighting every day to make sure you don’t take anything else from me.
Fuck you on Father’s Day.
And fuck you every other day, too.
Or maybe more accurately: fuck you.
Fuck you to the man who never deserved to be called a father. The man whose job was to protect me, love me, and keep me safe—but instead became the person I needed protection from.
Fuck you for stealing my innocence. For taking something that should have been mine to give freely when I was ready, not something taken from me by the one person in this world who was supposed to guard it.
Fuck you for the lies. For protecting your reputation instead of your child. For making me carry shame that was never mine. For making me question myself, my worth, and whether people truly care about me or are simply being kind.
Fuck you for the physical pain, the emotional pain, the mental scars, and the nightmares that still follow me. Even in death, you still find ways to hurt me. You still show up in memories I never invited. You still take up space in places where I wish there was peace.
And fuck Father’s Day for reminding me of everything a father should have been and everything you chose not to be.
The only comfort I have is knowing you will never hurt another child again.
As for me, I’m still here. Still healing. Still surviving. Still fighting every day to make sure you don’t take anything else from me.
Fuck you on Father’s Day.
And fuck you every other day, too.
