I Haven't Talked to my Dad in a Year

Hi guys! Welcome to our first literary piece! We received an entry from an anonymous author! So gear up to read this amazing piece of prose!

I haven't talked to my dad in a year. My therapist tells me I need to pick-up the phone and call; my mom yells at me to retrieve her child-support before returning to her blatant sippy-cup of alcohol; and my dad pleads with me through lengthy monologues to forgive his faults and analyze my own before I proceed. Yet, I can't imagine seeing him again, at the eyes that mirror my own fading plead. What would happen? Would we reconcile in bloodied tears at the battled wake left finished to rot in the sun? Or would his anger taste ever-potent on my burned burned tongue? Would I stare at my father and I realize I was all wrong to cut him off? Or would I stare at the stranger with ammunition three rounds too long? You see, with me and him, the battle never does cease. There's peace and times of retreat, but the ruin continues back and forth, back and forth until forgiveness is flown once more. But, is my white flag even recognizable anymore? He says my red hair is a battle of its own, angry at him, at the world, at words left unsung in ballads of agony and truth and torture untold, bleeding him slowly, ever slowly, until the rag is too rung. He says my eyes blaze, ice left coursing through his veins, freezing him still and cold in my wintery gaze. So why, oh why, can't he just stay that way.

 I haven't talked to my dad in a year.