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

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

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

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.

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