Pride was always the day before
Father’s Day.
The long drive home to my apartment
late at night,
trying not to stop for gas
or anything else
with my Tinkerbell t-shirt
and my painted nails,
no longer in safe territory.
Taking off my nail polish
for the next day.
Snipping off the paper bracelet.
Waking up early for church
with my family.
It always seemed cruel.
Some type of hangover of the soul.
Being dragged so quickly from the mountaintop
down to the valley.
Being shoved underwater
after getting a few lungfuls
of precious air.