my father is **dictatorial** in his tenderness.

even the plainest tasks — ones that i am _fully_ capable of doing myself — he insists on doing for me. washing my clothes, peeling my fruits, tying my shoes, braiding my hair; the list carries on forevermore. in his arms, i am made out to be small and delicate, a baby cradled in something that can only mimic the safety of a crib. his touch does not promise the comfort of a stable home but the fragility of a house that’s made of cards, trembling and on the verge of collapsing.

i am fifteen, quickly and rapidly approaching adulthood, and i’ve been independent for _all_ of those fifteen years. but daddy, now that time isn’t giving me grace, and i stress, and i become a crying blubbering mess, and i yearn for death’s embrace; can i be your baby again? is it selfish of me to want to slip into your bed quietly, to curl into your side, if only to feel a shred of your **tender** yet **sharp **hold?