My father says he can understand me.
I want to believe him, the way a child wishes on a shooting star-a fleeting flicker of hope-never quite fulfilled.
I tell myself that if I am the result of his rough hands, the battered remains of his abandoned pen, the hollow poem of his guilt-ridden words, then perhaps he could understand me.
Yet he remains oblivious to the chapters of my life that claw at their coffins, begging to be set free.
I wonder why I lie through the same lips that once uttered affectionate words to the man who built me-
the man who inevitably built me to fall, just as he does.
Is it because he would finally see that I'm not his little girl anymore?
Because he'd realize the memories he cherishes-the laughter that echoed through my crooked teeth-were as hollow as his love?
No.
No, it's because if my father understands me, I truly am his creation-a creation that thrives on his cracking pillars.
Because if my father truly understands me, I am still his little girl.
It means she still clings to the remnants of who I was-eternally trapped in his heart. Or mine.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts for the Eye
PoetryThoughts I wrote down, maybe they'll give you some comfort? "But I feel something deeper. Beneath the fear, there is a fire inside of me, one I cannot extinguish. It burns with the pain and the rage of all the women who came before me. " PS. If...
