brush my teeth

When I was 6, I used to brush my teeth in the shower.

For no other reason than it’s what my dad would do.

And I wanted nothing more than to be just like my dad.

My replicated muddy brown eyes and tan skin wasn’t enough,

I wanted my every habit to be his.

When the couch began to form an imprint of you, I carved out the cushion so that I had one right next to it.

When your arm began to hold a permanent bruise at the upside of your elbow,

I took a marker to mine to give myself the same purple tint.

When you began to build dirt underneath your fingernails from digging your own grave,

I took up gardening to give myself that same green thumb.

When I was 16, I realized you hated gardening, 

Along with anything else that held life.

That’s when I decided that if I wanted to be just like you, I would have to never see you again.

Because if I never saw you again then you could be anything I want.

And I could try to be the version of you I’ve created in my head.

But you didn’t know how to just be gone.

You only knew how to be fleeting.

And what was required to be fleeting was to somehow always come back.

You always came back.

You always made sure I knew exactly who you were.

You never gave me the option to believe in the version of you in my head.

You killed him every chance you got.

I used the grave I spent my whole life watching you dig to bury him.

Today, I bring flowers to that grave and mourn you.

Only to see you again a week later.

Today, the last thing I would ever do is brush my teeth in the shower.

For no other reason that it’s what my dad does.

And I want nothing more than to be nothing like my dad.