Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never own me.

“There is something rotten inside of you,” my dad said.

I sit with my monster in the dark. I am alone with it, wondering if I should let it eat me.

“I don’t want to be a burden to my children,” my dad had said years ago.

I could hear the sad echo of his voice and the hopeless despair he’d gained from becoming what he’d feared.

I needed him to know he’s not a burden. I stopped writing so I could call.

He answered on the fourth ring. His voice was faint, like a muffled heartbeat heard through a broken stethoscope.

“Eat your breakfast, Dad,” I said before he could finish trying to speak.

The truth is, my being here is killing him—and killing me. The breakfast I make him every morning is a feeding tube nourishing a body I’ve already stabbed to death. He’s on life support, and I keep stealing his quality of life.

My existential crisis has been whether or not to exist at all. Should I let myself be erased like a mistake made with a pencil or a permanent pen? My dad is dying. My mom is dead. The years I have left in my own life are but an echo of the hopes and dreams they had collectively. They wanted the best for me, and that is what I intend to give them.

He sighs, a listless whisk beating through eggs that would have been perfect except for the toast.

A video he's watching loops on repeat. I wish I could focus, but my mind is stuck on the wrong side of being right.

Tell me lies. Tell me sweet little lies.
So I can believe I’ll always be the same girl you once loved.
So you’ll remember me like the photographs I once took.

They say life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.
I believe the life you live is a choice.
I’ve been stuck in the pattern of choosing success that keeps me mired in failure.
If I choose my photography business, I will fail at life.