#133

And he saw no fault in me.

His smile was genuine.
He was definitely happy
for me.

I know.

His eyes can't tell lies,
and in their depths,
I was certain.

Although...

I can't say the same.

I—
I was never a good kid
growing up.

I did terrible things—
horrible, horrible things.

And yet,
he's still proud of me.

Like an occult believer—
a fanatic.

I—
I am certain
I've let him down
more times than I could count,
more times than I could remember.

Yet somehow,
time and time again,
through all my fuck-ups
and stupidity,
he'd always be there.

His eyes were sometimes
disappointed.

I definitely felt those—

but never,
not once,
in all the days
I can remember,
could I say
that he stopped supporting me.

Maybe it's him
that I'd call
my first murder—

my Abel.

The moment
I grew horns
and went astray
from his dreams for me.

But like Lazarus,
he came back.

Somehow,
as if,
throughout all my life,
I had never truly
disappointed him.

I'm going to hell,
ain't I?

I'd accept nothing else
but this one sin
I know for certain
I have committed
all my life:

to break
my father's heart.

I can't ever,
ever,
get forgiven for this.

Yet somehow,

if my father
were the one to decide,

I—

I am certain
he'd open
the gates of heaven
for me.

As if he saw
no fault in me.

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