my father is a gun
his words, a hand
with each syllable leaving his mouth,
he is reaching closer and closer
towards me, the trigger
and leaving my mind
a mess on the side of the wall
my father is a dam
his words, a drop of water
every word he purges from his foul tongue
creates pressure, multiplying by the second
until the concrete no longer
can withstand the weight
and soon enough he's burst
and my lungs are on fire because I'm
searching for a breath of air
but I can't seem to find it within
my constricted chest
my face resembles that of
the dead you see,
numb beings thieved of oxygen
I guess I understand why
his favorite color has always been purple
he enjoys the shade on the skin
of the people he pretends to love:
he inflicts pain upon them
until either their bodies
or their souls are bruised
hues of reds blacks and blues
and continues to hurt them
until they fight back
and their skin is tougher
and not as easy to morph
into an intriguing color
he says he learned from his parents
just how not to treat his children
in a way, he did learn
instead of leaving us
with broken bones and missing teeth
we dealt with seething words
and empty eyes
knowing my father was an open field
with land mines scattered like the
stars in the sky
we cringed at each careful step
fearing we were one heartbeat
away from an explosion
and somehow that is still
love in his eyes
