My mother was a patch of smudged ink on
his arm, skin yet to close after being lasered
by the dermatologist. What were you thinking?
she had said to him before, and he answered
I love you, and as she touched herself
prodding her comical mouth with a finger
her shadows tenderly seeping into his pores
making her more vivid. Each time I’d see
my father pointing a knife at her, at her
smile wanting to tear it off. And I was his
death eater, quick to sew my mother shut
and burn her before she causes too much
damage. Then father would touch my
face as if he’s now seeing clearly through
the tears that clog his serpent eyes. How
in this chamber of secrets we dance
in a ballroom tiled with his pain. And I
was wearing ice slippers, his frozen tears
leaving a wet trail that clouds this rib vault
where our steps are quiet, where father I am
Yours,
your horcrux.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC