it is 12 pm and i'm trying not to smudge the makeup my eyes adorn - or rather, the eyes the makeup adorn.
i remember when my father told me i'd have his eyes; bedroom blue i never realized that one day, it'd be the last thing left of him.
the ink spilling onto this paper is made from my dreariness; photos' nectar seeping from printers, never going to match his ****** scars perfectly, his crooked nose once sought wear.
i'm never scared of when he returns home because i dislike being scolded - i seek his acceptance;
it's now quiet in my head.
my dad constantly tells me his time's running short - my mom would always dismiss it and say it was one of the many guilt trips he gave, but i'm not too sure.