passing magic

selfish

my father used to
tell me stories of a
girl who would
never learn

he would talk of her
faults; spinning the
thread throughout my mind,
his ever attentive
canvas.

he spoke of how she
yearned for something
akin to affection but
just not quite

he told me of her
dark circles and her
plain eyes and her
empty
love

he twirled his fingers
in the air, adjusting
the threads.

he told me of the ones
who traced along
her skin, whispering
and laughing,
their voices faraway
wind-chimes in
her mess of a
mind

he smiled,
"oh, how she would cry."
amusement entangled
his words, dancing along
my evanescent
naïveté

"sometimes i wondered if
crying was the only
thing she could do right,"
his eyes lost focus.

"what did you do, dad?"
i had asked, my fingers tangling
themselves in all
the thread,
searching for her,
and her story.

"oh, i decided,"
he mused,
"her life was a nightmare
that i did not wish to
partake in."

and then he was on my horizon,
towering and formidable;
and he was screaming,
and my hands flew to my ears to
block out his deafening
cries

but my fingers were wrapped
in thread, black and blue and violet,
and i was nothingness.

"child,
i taught her how
to fall out
of love."