your mother was exhausted,
your father brutal
so brutal-
with his hands and his words
his actions and his thoughts
"that's not him.
he is not violent in the traditional way,
no, we like to do things differently here."
that was what you breathed against my wrists
as my fingers questioningly brushed the scar on your temple
he could not speak
and yet he was the most tumultuous existence in your life
his hands made vicious signs
and his intemperate words on stained paper,
addressed to you and his wife
your eyes were tired of his ink
with it in sight,
they would shatter with one more blink
eventually,
though you still saw it
but you stopped reading it
you had something better to read after all
something more pleasing
more appealing
me
like a fairytale with butterflies and rainbows
(that die and fade,
but you did not know that-
yet)
like a summer love story with no end in sight
(though even you know-
the sight seen by tired eyes cannot be trusted)
so
you read me
you read me like a children's book
chapter after chapter,
in the day-
so we could pretend the story was our reality
before sleeping-
so you could meet me again in your dreams
it's quite a satisfying shame, really
you could not see this book's for what it was
you couldn't see-
that it wasn't a book at all
it was a letter
a letter that bled,
I was a letter
a letter in red
