six.
small fingers counted the days until I could perish with the wind.
become one with the stars.
mother wept into the arms of her reflection
what life had become, she could not say.
father drowned himself in toxins
what had become of him,
no one could say.
in his love
I found my limits.
in his temper
I found my strength.
and in his absence
I found my voice.
Listen.
-if I’m being honest, your inability to raise me was the best way to let me grow
-Chloe Aldecoa
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC
six.
small fingers counted the days until I could perish with the wind.
become one with the stars.
mother wept into the arms of her reflection
what life had become, she could not say.
father drowned himself in toxins
what had become of him,
no one could say.
in his love
I found my limits.
in his temper
I found my strength.
and in his absence
I found my voice.
Listen.
-if I’m being honest, your inability to raise me was the best way to let me grow
-Chloe Aldecoa
Take the history, the dragged through the mud, suffering in the dark history and paint it a new color. Take the shadows and show them a new light, create from the remains that have been destroyed.
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