Iron

I always end up back at 146 Loretto Court. Out in the backyard and my father will be a zombie. He walks around the swimming pool (which is filthy because I never cleaned it like I was supposed to) and he's left a cigarette burning on his dresser. He shouldn't be smoking because he died of cancer. He isn't a scary zombie, but neither is he a benign zombie. Just walks around the dirty pool and I know he's thinking about what a lousy son I (was) am. The cancer that killed him is nothing compared to the cancer he left inside me; the cancer of self-doubt and self-hatred. The cancer of never being enough or doing enough. It is more than likely that I am the zombie and he is the one breathing. I breathe dead air as his cigarette burns into the dresser.

Men should be careful about their iron intake. Too much of a good thing can be a bad thing!