My mother puts sugar in her milk.
I put complan, sometimes horlicks but mostly coffee, I prefer RAGE, french vanilla, in my milk.
My grandfather thinks the food best for his body is awla.
I sometimes still struggle to think it isn't nothing.
My father is a hurricane in the eye of which I sit crumpled up delicately.
The stubble on his chin stabs me stubbornly when he holds me in his sleep, and I remember how cruel he can be sometimes.
When I am a child again, his eyebrows arch sheepishly like the back of a yawning dog and his mouth moons up into glee and his eyes giggle candidly and he sounds again as if he still owns a yellow hero honda and I forget for a moment he is you.
I look at my eyes in the mirror and wonder if they are his.
I look at my limbs in the mirror, I know they are his.
YOU ARE READING
specks of bunkum but somehow watery
PoésieI have a tendency to convince myself I can write once in a while. This is it's manifestation in reality, somewhat like watered down poetry.
