My Latest Original Poetry
About My Father
There is a photo of my father holding me upside down, over his shoulder. My long, ashy brown curls flowing out of my head like a waterfall, my smile; loud and vibrant.
When holding the photo, if you listen close enough, you can hear us laughing as the camera shuttered to capture the moment.
“Again Daddy! Again!” I’d beg after he put me down.
The photo reminds me of the times I would rest my head on his chest, his hand rubbing my back as I listened to his heart beat.
My father was the only home I had ever known. He was a house to stay in, a house with a library; full of books that had the answer to any question my mind could fathom. We would talk for hours and he would always listen, as if I could never be a bother.
I began to understand why the word ‘God’ was so often used synonymously with the word ‘Father’.
I have mourned your death thousands of times, Dad. Even though you are still alive I am mourning. I am mourning because I still love you after all you did.
But maybe in another universe when you and I left the house after that fight with mom, we didn’t come back. Somewhere, in another universe you are still my dad.
I believe that in another time line you never married her and it was just you and I. And we grew up together and healed from our past. In another timeline we still speak freely, Dad.
Maybe, there’s an alternate universe. One where you died before you hurt me. But you died while you still loved me, while I was still allowed to call you Daddy.
You died before you could leave me in the way you did in this reality; cutting off yourself from me, piece by piece, in order to survive in that house, with that woman you married.
I know you still loved me Dad.
I could see it in your eyes.
I could feel you trying.
And I could feel you
Finally give up.
My Mom’s New Car
i wont recognize my moms car because she gets a new one every couple years. my mom likes shiny things. she’s always cleaning, always bragging about quality. When i got my first car, I told her I’d keep it clean, like hers.
“your car will never be as clean as mine” she shot back with the intention of being hateful. mom always reminded me that there were more than enough areas i could fall short in.
mom likes newness, she likes shiny, bright, new, new, new.
and i want to tell her that i get it, i really do.
but when i imagine my future, there is always a thin layer of dust on my bookshelf, dried flowers in the vase on the table, a cobweb or two around the window seal.
a field of wrinkles by my mouth from laughing too hard and too much.
bags of blue and purple under my sagging eyes from all the nights i missed my bed time.
loose skin around my hips from the ever changing fluidity of my body.
and glorious, old things, to remind me where i’ve been.
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