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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.
and when i apologize,
i think it'll sound like water
draining from a tub,
forced into sewers
much like the back of my throat
let's bathe together -
steaming water gushing from a faucet
oxygen trapping itself in soapy bubbles;
yr beautiful body
clothes in suds as they drown in lavender,
i'll kiss them all off of you
it's funny how the earth cups water,
rain carving bowls into dirt and grass,
caressing the currents;
tears of otherworldly lovers -
it flinches when coming in contact, rippling
to a road of solitude:
how is it that you are
so much more welcoming
than the shell i am beckoned
to reside in?
my father always told me
to keep the windows open
when burning candles
otherwise i will inhale the wax
and it will coat my lungs,
turning me into a candle as well;
so i kept the glass shut

— The End —