I dreamed about papa last night. It was the same as the ones I had before. On a sunny day with my bursting chest and fidgeting fingers, we had our usual talk. A conversation I could only think of because we never talked about anything other than that. One that would make him leave the sofa and stare at me with hell in his eyes. I would shrink as he approached and then-
My eyes stared at the ceiling. Blank head and sweaty. I recall how his fist came to me. It didn't hurt. Maybe I was busy abating my anger and grief, I don't know. I will dream about papa again. It will be the same as the ones I had before. On a sunny day when he would look at me like a monster, his ears were pretending deaf, and when I wished I was burned alive.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poésie[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
