Tuesday, June 4, 2013

day 262

Betelgeuse

my father is six foot two with the heart of a gentleman. he speaks only when spoken to and breathes with the wisdom of a million Chinese proverbs sitting on the edge of his tongue. one time before he put me to bed, he told me the story of his undying flame of a love he has for my mother. told me he would never leave her, or my sister, or my brother, or me.

my father is six foot two with the lungs of an honest scholar. he clenches his fist as well as he bites his tongue. my father protects me. from the monsters in the kitchen cupboard and the ghosts underneath my pillow. he was the tooth fairy, Saint Nick, the mail man, and the tree house creator. his hands are calloused from the labor of hard earned work. taught me how to be a woman. to clench my fist at the boys who became ghosts underneath my pillow.

my father is six foot two with the stride of an elephant herd. taught me to never leave anyone behind. told me the story of his undying flame of a love he has for my mother. told me he would never leave her. or my sister. or my brother. or even me. taught me how to be a woman. to sit pretty and watch as all hell breaks loose. to summon the demons in the hallway closet and hide them in the kitchen cupboards. we all eat up this bullshit anyway. my father taught me how to let my lies rot the porcelain on my teeth.

my mother is four foot nine with the patience of a saint. I don't know how to resurrect the fire in my parent's marriage. my father is six foot two with the stomp of a thunderstorm. they let the fire wash itself out before I even learned how to swim in my mother's womb. my mother taught me how to chew my way out of bad situations. sometimes I wish I didn't have my father's teeth. I wish the porcelain was strong enough to chew my way out of the womb. show my parents, look mommy, look daddy, I am every nightmare you've ever had. I wish your flame was strong enough to break me, too.

No comments:

Post a Comment