I've been thinking of you for a while.Trying to understand why you don't care.Why you never come to visit.Why you barely know me.Why I have to come to you every summer, and act like it's all okay.When I get to thinking about that, I hate you. Or I want to hate you. Then I think about who you are, and end up hating myself. Hating myself for not being able to hate you.
You're an artist. Those hands have destroyed so much, but the few things they have created, have been amazing. I know I got it from you. I know that the creativity in me, the ability to see like an artist, and feel like an artist, that is because your blood is running through my veins. The imagination in my heart, no. That comes from someone else. Somewhere else. You never taught me. Never once did you take me aside, and help me understand myself. You never showed me how, or even let me observe you. So I know that my heart, and my mind does not come from you. That is the part I have control of. But it's in my blood. In an undeniable way. Someone just pointed that out to me, and it all made sence. The blood in my veins is blood I am ashamed of at times. Or blood that I wish I could be ashamed of. But it's there, and it's because of you. So I guess I should thank you.
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