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.
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.
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
— The End —