I can’t sing.

I don’t know what I’m doing standing here next to you, biting my lip, hoping you’ll hold my hand. I sure as hell don’t know why I keep thinking of random things about myself I want you to know.

I think Hemmingway’s writing sucks.

I don’t want to tell you these things while we’re at dinner, or- even worse- blurt them out while we stand outside, waiting for a table. I just want you to know them, eventually.

I hate pickles.

I can’t help but stare awkwardly at my feet as you light up a cigarette, not purposefully ignoring me. I think.

I wish on broken shoelaces and spilled shots.

I put my hands behind my back, having realized you won’t hold them. “So…” I try to begin, try to formulate a thought… But I can’t.

I used to think onion rings were calimari.

Why can’t you just look at me? Please?

I love listening to death metal.

The buzzer goes off in your hand and you stand up. I want to scream.

I want you to know these things, because I want you to know me, Dad.