bumps: bumps

It’s morning when I return to Father. The weather is as dreary as his disposition.

I’m his daughter, but I must wait my turn, after the acolytes and inamoratas. I pity those who desire his audience. Most fall between vapid and resigned.

A brave few are too disgusted to put on their best face. They’re the pragmatists of the bunch, I like them. They remind me of my mother, not that I ever knew her. I just know she was like that.

The queue dwindles, and it’s my turn to receive the gift of parenting.

I tower over Father. He smells like dried grass, and is a personality.

did you: visit your sister

Would I be here if I didn’t?

tell: tell: confess: confess

The Archangel agreed-

confess: confess-

She agreed! We’re moving to the water! Allow me the dignity of a response!

That shuts up him for a heartbeat or two.

I’ve been staring at Father this entire time.

I could rip his head off, if I wanted to.

I’d be dead by nightfall, but he’d be dead, too.

Everyone would be fine for a few months. Even those who put me in the dirt would breathe a little easier.

But then, unannounced, he’d come back.

The Prince of Scum would rise from the dead and kill everyone who broke rank. My sisters would go first: negligence of duty, I suppose.

So many would die, just because I can’t tolerate a single conversation with Father.

Fortunately, his attention span is as short as his appetites are foul.

sport: sport

Yes, The Archangel adjusted our trajectory.

He would’ve known that had he paid the slightest attention.

It’s prudent to visit the river anyway. Dorset picked up some deep-earth fluttering: nothing tectonic, likely irrelevant.

bumps: bumps

He’s had so many daughters, I’m not sure he can tell us apart. Out of performative fatherhood, he flatulates a feeling.

haven’t been to the river lately: looking forward to sport-

I’m already walking away.

Save the rotting star, this sunrise is weak.

I should rip his fucking head off.

Outro: Uffie – “First Love”