The only time my parents are together is when their names read back to back in my phones contacts or in photographs, like the ones hidden in my closet. When I miss my childhood most, I run my fingers along the ridges of the bullet-shaped holes in pictures of my fathers face.

My father, one who is hard to forgive, never forgets to tell me good morning and goodnight despite being thousands of miles away. My mother, one who I held as she cried, taught me how to win a battle against your worst nightmare coming alive. I, someone already unstable, am trying to balance mixed emotions with clumsy hands. Sometimes, the weight of resentment causes me to let forgiveness fall.

My motto is, “Fall asleep in forgiveness.” I am a firm believer in positive self-talk. How you speak to yourself becomes a physical appearance that others reflect back onto you. For someone who values forgiveness as much as I do, I wonder how I can forgive my father for cheating, yet I cannot forgive the part of myself that takes after him.

I refuse to go to a beach without a bonfire. Bonfires mean there will be people to keep me from wasting wishes on shooting stars. People will keep me from wandering off, intoxicated by whatever I find, and becoming consumed by ocean tides. It would be ironic to die in a pisces home.

Bonfires remind me of the homemade firepit my father made, the one by the lemon tree outside my old bedroom window. Ever since December, s’mores have become sour. My palette no longer adores sweet things. Tell me how it is possible to be nauseous at the scent of rich chocolate or, better yet, how bonfires smell like your jacket, like the white one I used to steal.

You, the one that I wanted to give my heart to, suffered the consequences of me acting like my father. I want you to know that my life has become a cycling of apologizing.

I confess that I learned how to apologize from a liar’s mouth.

I think my most innocent lie was telling my parents, “Goodnight.” Little me would stand up on my bed and hug my mother tight. She would kiss my cheek. My father would grab me, swing me around or throw me over his shoulder, give me a big “bear” hug, and shut the door behind him. I, born with eyes that never learned how to shut, spent nights talking to the moon.

Saying, “Goodnight” was the only time that I loved seeing them together, yet, to this day, I try to forget the things that I heard from the other side of the door.

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