My father and I are one in the same;

according to some. 

He hates math,

me too, 

but I believe there are more similarities than not.

After all we have been through and got.

Medications, prescriptions,

some have more than others,

but you would not believe how many we need,

just to have each other. 

Anxiety, drugs, and depression.

We all have rough lives, 

but I would like to think that we have survived. 

I am alive,

despite everyone telling me I shouldn't be. 

I am dumb, fat, and ugly. 

The blood poured out, 

but nothing got better.

Bloodied wrists and thighs,

pretty hard to hide.

My father couldn't see it. 

My mother denied it. 

But then again,

that wasn't my father. 

That was just some druggy who shot heroin

and passed out in his daughters bed, 

before he could kiss me goodnight and say I love you. 

He wasn't my friend,

but neither was the officer who took my father. 

My father wrote letters trying to apologize and explain,

he didn't need to. 

I knew from day one.

I wrote poems to keep me sane,

but soon everything and everyone became mundane. 

I was numb,

but so was he.

And I wasn't the one kept in solitary. 

He is out and so am I.

We got clean together. 

He threw out his needles,

I flushed the razors. 

My father and I are one in the same,

according to some.

He hates math,

me too.