My father is a beast.
That’s what I think at least.
At me?He screams.
Nice he seems!
(He kills my dreams.)
I can’t say what I think,
FAST GIVE HIM HIS DRINK!
He is an alcoholic,
Beer makes him diabolic .
I’m really scared,
And very unprepared.
I need to hide my scars,
And start wishing on stars,
I want to shine in the dark,
And feel the spark.
He pushes me underwater,
And asks me:
Daughter what’s the matter?
He knows I can’t swim,
But still acts like a grimm.
I’m losing my breath,
Between Life and Death.
Water, so deep,
I’m slowly falling asleep.
But I do not want to wake up,
“Something came up,”
I’m fighting with myself,
Everyone else yells.
The only voice I cannot hear,
Is mine, oh dear.

I woke up to my neighbors belting out an off-key tune. I tried to cover my aching ears with my pillow, but their discordant voices echoed in my head, so I finally got out of bed.

I stared at the unfinished painting I had worked on the night before. In just a few seconds, my stomach dropped. Even in its incomplete state, there was a sense of impending doom looming outside my door—hideous, and that was my first thought this morning.

Shadows ran through the waves of my curls—spiraling endlessly—as my fingers gently brushed away the exhaustion from last night. For the second time, I turned to look at the unfinished painting restlessly sitting at the end of my bed. If it had eyes, it would definitely not meet my somber, dark brown gaze. It would fear me, for I would cut it into pieces. I would let it bleed until it was no longer breathing.

It would forever be cherished as a beast—unfinished, freshly cut like a lemon. When poured into a deep wound, its acidity would seize the skin, leaving nothing but unfortunate agony.

I drank two liters of fresh lemonade, but nothing happened. It didn’t cut me into pieces. I was still unfinished.

And so I avoided its beastly eyes. Even an unfinished canvas resented my sorrowful presence. I sliced another lemon and added a teaspoon of sugar, hoping today would be different.

do you hear the sizzle of my lungs
as they slowly burn to ashes?
my head is an anchor, weighing down
bringing me to the floor
i cannot breathe
i am aching
the doctor said i was fine
but the moment i left
and breathed in the poisonous fresh air
i wheezed
i could not breathe
my lungs were on fire
some people pretend im fine
but i see it in their eyes
how they’re pretending
some people avoid me
as to not get sick
to save their freezing lungs
the fire is spreading throughout my body
my face is red
my throat is burning
im fading out
my lungs are on fire
i cannot breathe.