When I was younger, I believed my father could lasso the moon to our doorstep. His eyes were satellites orbiting my life, and his arms could carry me to the top of Mount Everest.
In middle school, my father could carry my schoolbag, and he listened to the music I played on Bluetooth, though the last he cared for music was when he would press play on his favorite vinyl or cassette.
In high school, my father's hot chocolate in the morning would make the stress of physics easier, and his jokes in the afternoon would take away the feeling of failure.
My father had a cape tied around his neck for my whole life, and he would fly me around and show me the world. His hands were so big, they could fit the universe and even more, his teeth so strong he could open any can, his feet so fast he'd beat me to the imaginary finish line.
Now I find him leaning on me, the world much bigger than him. His strong arms can't lift me up to touch the stars, and the white streaks in his hair make it hard to deny his age. With every wrinkle I begin to realize he is no longer superhuman.
The thought of my father's age is one I continuously push away, I lock into the deepest part of my mind. His tired arms will always be strong enough to pull the moon, and his hair will never be fully white to me.
YOU ARE READING
Emotional Torture.
ПоэзияCollection of poems and pieces written about daily struggles and tackling big world problems from the eyes of a teenager. Warning: Some chapters might be triggering. Triggers include: Suicide Eating disorder Self harm
