I would wake up and hear a sound. My tiny heart would start to race round and around, and I would pray to a God that I didn\'t believe in that it was a burglar, because if it wasn\'t, then it was you.
I suppose you hated those nights too, daddy, when your little girl would have to help you.
We don\'t talk about those nights, daddy, but I think we should. Because it\'s those nights that took your good, little girl, and made her bitter.
They made her bitter because she would find you on the floor and put her head to your chest, holding her breath, hoping that she could still hear the pitter and patter of her daddy\'s heart, beating in his chest.
It\'s those nights that terrified your little girl more than any monster that could be hiding under the bed, daddy, because on those night a real one named diabetes came and visited you.
In my dreams I could sometimes see the monster lurking behind you daddy. Never noticed but always there, with black and wispy limbs that let off black smoke that curled into the air.
It\'s those nights where for a while you wouldn\'t know who your little girl was that made her bitter, daddy. It\'s those nights that made your little girl grow up to fast and learn too early, that her daddy needed her more than she needed him.
It was those nights when your little girl fed you pixie sticks that broke both of us, daddy, because even though your heart always kept going, daddy, it was your little girls heart that stopped working for a few seconds before I was able to find your pulse under my little girl fingers.