Sorry to Interrupt Sir, but Your Daughter Committed Suicide.

You know, sometimes I think
you do these things on purpose.
Like showing up, telling me
how much I mean to you.
But then, you leave.
You always do.

So where were you? Sorry, I didn't hear.
I was too busy blowing boys and doing coke.

You know, it's not like I don't try.
It's more like that I try so fucking hard,
to be worth your time, your money, your love.
To be pretty and smart and not such a failure.
'disapointment', 'biggest mistake',
my early child names.

Where were you, when I needed you there?!
Working, so I could spent your money?!

I know what you see, everytime you look at me.
I know how you hate everything I am.
And you let him hit me, you let him beat the shit out of me, daddy.
And it hurt more than things I did to myself.
When he touched me, saying that my daddy never cared,
that he's my daddy now.

Yeah, I know, you were working, I'm sorry to interrupt sir.
What's that bruise, you ask? Oh nothing, I just fell.

And I don't know what's killing me more.
Your absence? His presence? That mess in my head?
Your ex-wife called me slut yesterday, because I had my nails painted red.
And your girlfriend - yes, I mean that swedish model you are shagging,
she was blowing our gardener, in your bathroom.
Just as I did the day before.

Hey daddy, it's my birthday, would you have a tea with me?
Yeah, you have to go, I understand.

'Can you do something right, Christ?'
'And how do you think that I will look after what you've done?!'
'And you wonder why I don't want to spend time with you?'
'You call that an art? Even a kid in kindergarden would make these lips better.'
Every word you said scarred my soul a little bit more.
'I ment every word I said.'

What is it, father? What are these scars on my thights?
One for mummy, one for daddy, one for every broken soul.

"Daddy, I'm - I'm just kind of sad. Could we just stay at home?
No working dinners, just you and me - maybe some old horror movie?
Dad, I just broke up with a boy, he tore my heart apart.
Can I cry, please? My step-father beats me every sunday,
and my mother calls me whore. Could we stay at home please?"

You know, I sometimes wonder if you do these things on purpose.
Like that time when you found me smoking your cigarettes.
You came to me, Mr. Parent Authority.
'Put out that cigarette.'
And I did, on my thigh, burning myself with blank stare.
I think that is what shocked looks like.

"Why did you burn yourself?"
"Practicing for hell, daddy."