papa kills the tiny spider and my starving brain decides to miss him forty years down the line when i’m married with a fireplace & two cats & he’s ninety & still beating my ass at chess but not murdering any spiders any more what do you call the dropping of your heart into your stomach when you realize that this moment would never happen again time doesn’t bend to the whims of sixty year old teenaged girls who miss her dad killing spiders for her because she’s too scared of what would happen if she dirtied her own hands is the blood on your hands even if the blood is not on your hands?— how do you live in a world where your father isn’t there to kill the spiders for you / you/should know that i’m terrified of growing up at nineteen because i know i’m growing up too fast for my short slow feet my body & the world keep playing catch up with my mind i’m already ten years down the line unflinchingly in love & fit as fuck waking up to pancakes every Wednesday but i’ve always been so fucking bad at drawing straight lines my hands begin to shake & the lines start to look like grasses under trees under clouds how do i make my way over to the other side? 

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