i have a dream in the future -
of a sharp, obsidian blade
that makes a home for itself in the palm of my hand.
and when i swing the blade,
it connects with my father's neck -
and makes a swift entry and exit.

my father's head rolls on the floor -
and i watch in curiousity as old vines and blue tulips
sprout from his severed neck.

who knew that those things lived inside of him?
well, i guess i know now.

when i was a little girl,
i used to lay my head in my father's lap -
and his wrinkled, brown hand would hover above my face.
and i would close my eyes,
as his thick fingers traced themselves over the contours of my youthful skin.

it felt nice.
his fingers would sweep underneath my chin -
across my forehead -
but i loved it best when his touch made itself known,
with light fingertips fluttering over my closed eyelids.

he was the magician -
healing my eyesight of the world i'd seen -
the sights i'd witnessed -
he was making me feel pure again,
touching me into sleep,
making it known that i was safe.
that i am safe.