Excerpts From The Book I'll Never Write

#93

There is a child shaped coffin that sits comfortably in the backseat of my memories. It sits there, covered in daisies and although it's it peaceful, resting like the acronym says, I am uncomfortable. I am staring at this coffin and I know there's a kid in there and I know that, that small wooden box is holding someone's daughter. That beautiful, beautiful box, is holding my fathers daughter.

I'm in the front seat, adjusting the radio to play some stupid punk song but I keep glancing into the rear view mirror, getting distracted by the daisies, by the coffin, by the child that died. So I continue to check the backseat, but the more I'm looking, the more the coffin is disappearing and soon all I can see is me.

The child sized coffin has turned into the delicate curve of my top lip and the peaceful aura has lodged itself into my throat, making it impossible for me to breath or to speak, no. It's not the peacefulness that keeps me silent, it's the hand that is closing over my mouth, forcing its way down the front of my pants. And that's when I notice the tattoo on his arm, a flower so delicate it makes me wonder how something so beautiful could belong to someone that brings me so much pain.

I hate daisies.