At least he didnt get blown up like your faggot brother
My brother, unlike your children died with the innocence of not having dealt a junkie dad as a card. It's a quiet, unearned luxury—like growing up thinking locked doors are just for the cold, not for protection from rage or overdose. It’s thinking a belt is for pants, not a tourniquet. It’s believing dads always show up on time, or at all.
It’s the arrogance of peace.
The confidence in bedtime stories instead of crash-outs on the couch.
It's laughing at anti-drug PSAs because they don’t feel
real—because you've never had to spoonfeed Narcan into the mouth of a ghost that wears your father’s face.
To never have known that grief can start long before death—that’s the kind of innocence people flaunt without knowing it.
They say “just talk to him,” like you haven’t. Like it wasn’t all you ever did.
They say, “It’s not that hard to forgive.”
No—it’s not hard when you’ve never had to.
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