You’re sitting in your room getting s**t-faced wasted,
Drinking away your pain, drowning your guilt,
Tell me dad, how has irony tasted?

A rise in his voice, stumbling barely awake, 
Taking each step with caution, each step full of rage,
She begs God for his comfort, just to heal her heart’s ache.

You’re getting angrier now, your “baby girl” so scared, as she hides behind the door,
She used to look UP to you, you used to make her feel safe,
But now? Why look up? For daddy’s passed out on the floor.

She’s sorry she’s not perfect, she swears that she is,
Don’t you still love her? She’d thought she was your everything,
Yet she still had so much love, what was missing was his, 
What happened to my father? She’s now sorry for existing. 

She was hurting so much, she was in so much pain,
A pain down so deep, not outside but within,
So she writes to you now, although likely in vain, 
Your baby girls broken, but go ahead and down that last bottle of gin.