You live on cigarrettes and coffee, with a tad bit of sugar. 
If I didn't know better, I swear you were a thispo blog.

You told mom when you remarried her that you would stay on your meds

You told her you'd clean the house

Listen to her problems

Cook dinner.

Be a "trophy husband"

You celebrated your first anniversery in January. 

If you had stayed together, it would've been 20 some years.

A year in and the kitchen is a disaster.

I try my best to keep it clean but you keep spilling your coffee.

You walk away from mom and she comes to me and cries.

You cook dinner for yourself and if you do not eat it in one sitting, it sits out for days.

Dad, this isn't who you were supposed to be.

You sit in your office smoking two packs a day and the walls are covered in tar

They resemble your lungs I'm sure

You have decorated said office with knick knacks:

Pictures of me, 14 years ago. Pictures of my brother, 14 years ago. 

#1 dad mug made in 2nd grade.

My first painting.

Empty coffee cans, burned down candles

Dog tag chains and books you'll never read.

Your prized possession is the crystal ash tray that sits next to your computer.

I hear you coughing at night,

Mom says you throw up.

Admit you're dying, dad. 

Admit you should've been there.

Stop pretending you know me and talk to me.

Stop trying to parent me and apologize for once.

"Sorry I missed your concerts."
"Sorry I missed you riding your bike."
"Sorry for the years you wouldn't hear from me for months."
"Sorry for putting my crack head girlfriend ahead of you."
"Sorry I fucked you up."

Get to know me before your time is up

Because right now, I don't care to know you.

Admit you're dying, dad.

I cannot stand the smell of your cigarette

And the coffee that stains the art I make and the childhood you took from me.