Beauty is not in the eye of this beholder.

I don't like it when you stare. When you raise one eyebrow and let me assume the rest. There's so much air...and you let me make the words you do say, fester. They swell up inside of me and I try not to let them make a mark, but they always sliver through the patches of rougher skin. The scars, you know? It's hard, sometimes.

I don't like it when you barge in my room at midnight, saying you love me. It's the liquor talking and as much as I refuse for my tongue to spit out those same words back...I fearfully do, anyway. Because what happens if I don't? That's something I wouldn't want to find out at midnight-with a huge day ahead of me.

I don't like your smell. Alcohol mixed with cigaretts and cheap cologne. You try to cover up so much more than just the booze. You try and hide your insecurities, you're ugliness, you inability to love...your own daughter. Words are only words. And they can build you up-but just as easy they can tear you down. The drunken "I love you's" only hurt me, daddy.

I don't like distance. Because as much stuff I don't like about you...there's still a whole where you should be...and I don't like that you'll never be able to fill it.

But most of all...I don't like that you can't even find one beauty in me.
Not one. Because I guess I've learned that your eyes don't hold much beauty, don't see much beauty, don't realize anything beautiful. And not in just me...but everything. In setting suns, in paycheck day, in your daughters hair growing longer...beauty is not in the eye of this beholder.