father, i can see your face
in the screen of my phone when it’s
turned off.
and i hate it when that reflection smiles,
trying to temporarily erase the thought
of you in my mind.
father, i have long forgotten that i have you,
for i have been too used to
attending my own school’s seminar
when my teacher told me to
bring at least one parent.
at school, they will scold me for
failing to bring you.
and at home, you will scold me for
asking too much favor.
father, when you left,
that was the time in my life when i
finally learned
how to breathe.
it was not when i first gasped
for air after leaving mother’s body.
it was when you packed your things,
and without saying a single thing,
left us with nothing.
and maybe that was really your profession:
to start something you can’t finish,
and leave the drafts somewhere
like throwing a garbage out of
your house and
closing the door, locking it.
then when you miss the drafts,
and when the thought of finally
finishing them crosses your mind,
you’ll start looking for them.
and when you remember the feeling of
wanting to leave them once more,
you’ll do it again.
you only come back for the thrill.
you only come back when you
want to feel something.
and once you’ve felt it,
you’ll leave and repeat the cycle
over and over
again.
that’s why i hate seeing your face
in my phone’s screen.
it reminds me of your hobby.
i hate, too, that i am just
a draft for you.
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poetry"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
