I was your little girl,
Who swells in hives at the thought of bees.
And I wonder-
If my skin grew blue upon entering the world,
with that umbilical cord noose
Around my throat.
Would you have differentiated
fear
from
love?
Each sting,
a red handprint
Serving as a childhood memory
on our grand search for the big dipper
not through imprints covering my skin
like speckled constellations.
Could your arms have choked love into me?
As a form of protection from the world,
Or the terrifying thoughts in my brain.
Should have been my mother bird.
A broken wing no cause for concern,
you take your feathers,
mending me.
I was your little girl,
Rolling in the grass,
barefoot and happy.
Dad talks about me like I’m a pastime-
He can’t escape.
How does a father speak about their child,
in the same way,
people express distaste for smoking?
Hope he doesn't
think of me,
Like a painful itch.
When he chain smokes
His time left in clouds.
But I feel the resentment
And his suggestion that I bring decay into his life.
My dreams are often hidden truths,
Nobody, in reality,
dares to speak.
Admitting what he’s too afraid to say.
Last night his words stinging like a bee,
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
I was your little girl,
Who swells in hives at the thought of bees.
And I wonder-
If my skin grew blue upon entering the world,
with that umbilical cord noose
Around my throat.
Would you have differentiated
fear
from
love?
Each sting,
a red handprint
Serving as a childhood memory
on our grand search for the big dipper
not through imprints covering my skin
like speckled constellations.
Could your arms have choked love into me?
As a form of protection from the world,
Or the terrifying thoughts in my brain.
Should have been my mother bird.
A broken wing no cause for concern,
you take your feathers,
mending me.
I was your little girl,
Rolling in the grass,
barefoot and happy.
Dad talks about me like I’m a pastime-
He can’t escape.
How does a father speak about their child,
in the same way,
people express distaste for smoking?
Hope he doesn't
think of me,
Like a painful itch.
When he chain smokes
His time left in clouds.
But I feel the resentment
And his suggestion that I bring decay into his life.
My dreams are often hidden truths,
Nobody, in reality,
dares to speak.
Admitting what he’s too afraid to say.
Last night his words stinging like a bee,
Based on a dream I had last night.
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