it isn't invisible.
you put me in the perfect dress
looking for the perfect daughter,
is that why you ignored
the scars painting my body?
the layer of wood between
bedrooms was thin,
yet you added an inch simply
to avoid the screams coming
from the other side.
did it ever cross your mind
that the threads on the dress
would fade and fray?
the glue between my lips would unstick
did you consider imperfection, mother,
did you consider hell?
pushing the prodigy past
her breaking point.
draining her of the oh-so-important
religion and purity.
father it isn't rebellion,
it isn't lack of prayer.
if I could place a label it would be
insanity
brought on by those
who brought me up.
and just so you're aware
puppet strings always
break eventually.
c.d.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoesíaA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
