I wonder how long it would take for my father to notice the cuts on my body or for my mother to notice that I sleep too much and when I do,
dreams don't come out right they come out left and sort of backwards or inside out or black and white they are never grey,
but always real.
My dreams show up in my reality and I can't wonder too long because 321LIGHTS

It's gone.

I wonder how long it would take for his touch to infect these pages
and leave stains that soak through to where he last grazed my scars.
I Don't Know If He Did.
But I think he did.
I remember the way they felt,
and I remember imagining what they felt like to him.
Maybe like acid.
Probably like 3 long years of looking at me like thin fragile shattering finger bones,
or the spine of all the books he never read.
Then why do his palms feel like a remedy
I haven't found out about yet.