I never knew touching like that was a thing
It felt disgusting
It still does
I still remember it way too clearly
I was 5
It still haunts the f**k out of me
Never had the courage to tell anyone abt it
But I can still feel his hands on me
Touching me
But I couldn't do anything
I was helpless
still am
Didn't know anything abt it
Didn't know how to react
After all this I live in the same house
Acting like i don't remember it
While I feel his hand all over me every  second

From my place in the sun
I see the other children playing
Skipping stones
and chalk dusted denim
When an eery noice
calls out our attention
death is always looming from the sky
Though it is so
oh so blue today

Maybe I will find refuge
under the desk somewhere
But this only Wednesday lunchtime
I remember
A day like any other

As I walk home by the lake
I run to catch the shadows
As I hold my breath
This is magic
Not today

In the evening
A dark dark cloud
Is passing
And we hope it will not rain
Just a bit os static noise in
black and white

Next day
At my friend  
Ronald is pressing the botton
in full color
As the musk fades out

We are playing by the red brick wall
It didn't rain last night
He is not a madman
I say
It is only a matter of time
My brother added

I remember this now
Somehow I thought the world had changed
But it was always the same
Maybe I didn't hold my breath long enough

How can they  pretend like nothing happened...
Like they never said they regret giving birth to me
Like it never happened
But im crying every night
Till I can't breath
Cursing my existence
Blaming myself for everything
How do I tell them
Their words are killing me every second
How do I tell me
I force a stupid smile ever time I'm abt to cry
How do I tell them
They destroyed me in every possible way

I still remember his hands on me
Touching me everywhere
Everywhere he shouldn't
I still live under the same roof as him
Acting like it never happened
Acting like a loving family
But still I feel his hands on me
I told my mom
She knew everything
Yet nothing ever happened
Yet I sleep crying cuz I feel his hands on me

I think he said I love you—
or maybe just keep swimming,
those steady words,
like ripples in the dark water
when storms came roaring close.

But sometimes I wish
I could remember exactly,
because silence filled the spaces after—
no words left, no breath left,
just the ache of what wasn’t said.

I wish it had been I’m sorry,
or it’s okay,
something that would’ve let me hold him
without the sting of goodbye
carved into every quiet moment.

He didn’t choose to leave—
not really—
but I wonder if a sudden end
would’ve been easier to carry,
than the slow, cruel drift away,
bedridden and distant,
lost inside a fading light.

I said I love you to Daddy,
soft as a prayer,
but now I can’t say it again
and have him hear—
that final echo stays trapped,
a song that never finds its rest.

So I carry those words—
half spoken, half imagined—
a fragile thread in the silence,
tied to the heart he left behind.

I. Diagnosis (Age 6)

They said it like a fact.

Like Tuesday.

Like weather.

Your dad has cancer.
The word didn’t echo then—

not yet.

I drew flowers on napkins
 in the waiting room,

smiling at the nurse with the tired eyes.

Hope was a coloring book—

not a question.
I watched grown-ups fold in half

when they thought I wasn’t looking.

He got better,
then worse,

then “stable,”

which meant
 we stopped talking about the end

but never really forgot it.

II. Hallway (Age 10)

It wasn’t loud,

but something inside me screamed
 when I saw the hallway.
White light.

Buzzing lights.

No music,

just the squeak
 of my sparkly pink shoes

on waxed floors that had seen
 too much
 of what was about to happen to me.
I didn’t cry.

I knew.

The scent of death doesn’t hide,

it seeps—

through fabric,

through prayers,

through the last place he laid his head.
He walked in and never walked out.
Hope,
that traitor,

never said goodbye.
Just packed up and left

like a parent late on rent.
I thought we’d take him home
 with warm blankets and soup.

But we took him home in an urn.
I was ten.

He was gone.

And a part of me
 was buried with him

without a name.

III. Echo (Now)

I still have the shoes.

Tucked in a box like a secret.

The glitter’s faded,

but they still know how to squeak
 when the memory creaks open.
I don’t talk about it much.

The numb is quieter now—

more like static
 than silence.
Sometimes I smell his cologne
 in a stranger’s coat
and forget where I am.
Grief lives in the corners—

folds my shirts wrong,

burns my toast,

waits for me
 at the bottom of old picture frames.
I don’t cry easily.

I don’t break loudly.

But I remember.
And that’s the kind of hollow
 they don’t warn you about—

the kind that doesn't echo

because there’s no one left 
to call back.

Right at the seam of the blue lake
childhood runs through the sand
I, cautiously keep my feet on the rocks
leaving behind new footprints
laughing about what still makes us kids
leaning against the fallen tree trunks
that never abandon us to find our balance

I reach out, with both hands
and between *******
are worlds, and worlds, and worlds

Twisting, turning.
Frazzled twirling.
Snowflakes glistening.
Snowmen sitting.
Snowballs rolled, ready for fire.
Hot cocoa cups filled ready for hire.

Kids who've been touched by the snowflakes,
Twisting, turning.
And frazzled twirling.