I saw you at my mother’s funeral. My eyes were dry and fixated on you. Had I not been informed about who you were, I wouldn’t have known. I was the only one who was not looking down at the hole where my mother was being put to rest because I wanted to understand the shapes of your face. Before then, all I had for a vision of you was my childhood memories of the presents you had sent me in the mail. My mother did not let us talk, so I didn’t know who you were, but the day I found the clothes and shoes hidden in a box deep in her closet, I knew you were the one.

I checked the box every so often when she was away. She never found out. I checked it even though it was filled with things I had no interest in. Despite that, it still made me happy, as much as it could.

The funeral would not end. I was bored, so I continued thinking, but all it did was make me angry. I gripped hard at the hem of my black dress when I remembered how I waited for your next gift. It took me three idiotic years to realize you wouldn’t be sending any more. Are children really that patient? Because I believe I no longer am.

I like you, Father. My mother told me terrible things about you, but won’t you prove her wrong? I like you. Ever since I moved in with you, I have been watching you.

I do not think you’re handsome. But there’s something else about you. I like the way your chest rises and falls when you sleep. It means you’re alive. You exist when so many other things do not. I want to go there-- the hidden universe in your cells.

My eyes travel across your body.

Pull down your shirt, Father. You’ll catch a cold.

I run my hand along your chest to feel your temperature. Your pulse beats gently against my fingers. Good, good, I think as I nod to myself. I kneel beside you and continue watching to make sure you’re still breathing. You worked so hard today—you deserve this.

Before your nap, you told me to look for a college to apply to. I chuckled. I am not going to do that. I survived high school. Why would I want to waste my time doing it all over again? Father, life isn’t infinite. You are silly. Sometimes it feels like you don’t understand me, but I crawl into your bed to keep you warm because I forgive you.

When you’re not sleeping, do you watch me too? I often wonder what you see when you look at me. I do not know what I look like, but in everyone else’s eyes, it seems like this organic machine of mine fits into one of two configurations: female.

Everyone says I’m a child. Then a girl. Now, as predicted, I have become a woman. According to everyone, girls are daughters, and women are wives. So that must mean I am your daughter. Fathers are responsible for the sex of their children. Did you want me to be your daughter?

You once sent me hair clips with kittens on them. I wore them once.

You stir in your sleep as I bring your hand up to my chest. I’m a woman now. People say that women are made of certain body parts, and they say men like those body parts. I have tried hard to be a woman that you would like, but somehow I feel like I have failed despite what you have given me. I have breasts. You like breasts. I have a womb. You like that as well. Your preferences do not stray from my knowledge of men, as they are particularly ordinary, and yet--

Speaking of preferences, I must confess: I know everything about you. I know your password. I watched you type it in a video recorded with the camera I set in your study. Like I said, I am always watching you. And I have watched all of your pornography too, Father. I know your tastes. I know everything. Hahahah. You don’t like girls like me.

I am going to kiss you, Father. You may wake up at any time. You may hold me. You may love me.

You love me, right? Please say yes.

Here, let me worship your every step. I believe something grows from every trace you leave behind. I exist, after all, and you’ve made me so special. Thank you. But may I point out some flaws? Respectfully, of course.

You see, the chemistry in my mind changes when I think of you. My aorta expands, my chambers palpate. It hurts very badly as well. The perimetrium of my flesh crawls. There’s a fever in my womb, and it feels disgusting. I think it’s telling me to do bad things.

Father, what I mean to say is, something is wrong with me. I think I’m sick. And I want to make you sick too. Don’t be mad, please.

These thoughts pervert my mind as my lips press against yours. I am surprised when you kiss me back. I feel your hips grind as well. Are you really asleep, Father, or are you just being shy? There’s no need. You’re my everything.

I have learned all there is about you. I am your child, so I open myself up to you. Choose me. Wasn’t Mary also God’s child? He didn’t even touch her, and yet... Hahah, how naughty. Let’s play pretend, Father.

I feel your lower half hardening against me. Our tongues meet, and my eyes stay open. I wish you would open yours. It’s silly. You can’t see me like that. I press my body closer.

Do you feel it, Father? My love for you? I grab hold of your hand and bring it down towards my body. My brain doesn’t work well, but you’ve at least blessed me with a working womb.

Hey. Your hand is shaking. Why?

A daughter is a woman, a woman is a wife, a wife gives herself to her husband. Is this not how it should be? Father, you confuse me. I’m scared. Do you not want me? I am ready. Here, I will guide you to my entrance to prove it to you.

You gasp. Your hand rips away from mine, and you push me away. The heavens cave in.

You turn and look away. You tell me to leave.

I do not want to leave. I want you to come closer. My heart is open. Please enter. It hurts.

You have taken care of me so well. I’m sorry I’m broken. Is that why you don’t want me?

I don’t know what to do. You are the only one who knows. I reach for you again.

You smack my hand away.

I love you.

I hate you.

And I hate that I need you.

I try and try to pull you back in. Please don’t tell me to go.

I jerk at your shirt, and you raise your voice.

Stop shouting at me. Stop. Why won’t you love me?

I beg you over and over. Please help me, my face is starting to break. My voice won’t stop.

Please.

Please.

Please.

You grip my shoulder hard with one hand. The other presses against my mouth. You tell me to shut up. Shut up right now.

You ask me how could I do this to you. You’ve done nothing wrong. Why is this happening. Why do you feel this way. You’re not a bad person. You aren’t. You really, really aren’t.

Fathers shouldn’t feel this way about their children.

You say you feel disgusting—that we are both disgusting.

Your face is red with anger and fear, but I lay still as galaxies burst. A Virgin cries, and time swallows its own tail.

Does that mean you love me?

I wait for an answer. Eternity passes, and you let out a faint cry.

No, you say.

It turns into something feverish.

No.

Slowly, I reach for you once more.

Matter is an illusion. My heart slips, but it wants to believe in the grip around my neck instead of the tears running down my temples. You straddle me from above. I’m wheezing past your hand. I look into your pained face.

I’ve done it. This sickness—it hurts, doesn’t it? I want to smile, but I can’t when I know that I’ve sinned. Laying here, I allow your grip to tighten. I do not object you. I know that my everything has finally decided.

You hate me. You will kill me. At that moment, I realize that I have never wanted you more.

I’m happy. I’m so, so happy.

Devour me, please, Father. I’m so lonely. Please.

Please.

My gasps are weak. All sounds become a low rumble. I cannot see your face anymore. I’m scared. But I’m excited to return to you, that I can finally close my eyes. I am glad I was born, because it means I can die.

But of course, happiness does not exist.

You release your hand, and my lungs combust. Confusion pounds in my head as I spasm and cough. I can hear again, see again. Sitting up, I feel nothing but anger rushing through me. I glare at you. Your indecision disgusts me. You love me; you hate me. Choose. If you can’t decide, I’ll do it for you. I reach one last time, this time with gnarled fingers, but I stop when I feel tears roll down my face.

Maybe this is my punishment.

I’m sorry for making you sick. I’m no longer angry. I’m sorry.

I do not belong in the warmth of your bed. I know it’s sudden, but I have decided that I will kill myself tonight. Maybe that will make you happy—make me happy.

Thoughts become numb as I turn to get up, but you grab my arm.

Stay here, you say.

Like a dog, I stay.

Lie down, you say.

I lie down.

You cover my eyes with the palm of your hand, and I melt into your darkness.

You kiss me.

I smile.

I hesitate for a moment, but you allow me to wrap my arms around your neck. I let out a sigh.

This.

This is how it should be. Our bodies touching and becoming the same.

You slowly remove my shirt. Your hands are light and unsteady. You’re unsure of yourself, but I know you no longer can stop. Your breathing becomes fast, and your movements deteriorate into something animal. You look terrified, and you whimper to yourself as you slide down your pants. There’s no need to worry, Father.

I am your blood. You brought me to this world, created me, and I exist for you. My body is a canvas, and I’m beyond excited to see what you do with it.

This is a woman’s—no—a child’s purpose. I smile and smile and smile.

My heart-strings are being torn apart.

Please, enjoy for as long as you’d like.