You remember being four. The tokens and trips that held his silent screams of, “look at all the love I have to give!” Of the exasperation that heaved from your mother’s mouth whenever you came home, arms heavy with the weight of their unfulfilled promises.
You had told him you wanted to be a family but he only bought you toy homes of pink plastic.
At six, the Second will ask you what you want to be. You tell him a princess. He instructs you to build a mind palace and fills it with names of constellations and why Einstein was brilliant. He tells you knowledge is the power of a queen.
When you’re twelve you’ve opened your eyes to find you live between glass walls. Of which, the Third will fill with his thunderous cries. A promise of lightning to come.
You are now twenty. Drifting through the halls of their tombs; breathing in the smell of stale varnish now chipping from plastic walls. You throw brief glances at the broken pictures depicting ideas and thoughts given to you by the Second, as you maneuver through the shards of glass that litter the floors from the Third.
Hands brush one last time across the gritty walls of their broken love. Coating them in particles of bitterness which fight to be remembered.
Crossing the threshold into the arms of a newness not yet named, you leave them behind.
You had told him you wanted to be a family but he only bought you toy homes of pink plastic.
At six, the Second will ask you what you want to be. You tell him a princess. He instructs you to build a mind palace and fills it with names of constellations and why Einstein was brilliant. He tells you knowledge is the power of a queen.
When you’re twelve you’ve opened your eyes to find you live between glass walls. Of which, the Third will fill with his thunderous cries. A promise of lightning to come.
You are now twenty. Drifting through the halls of their tombs; breathing in the smell of stale varnish now chipping from plastic walls. You throw brief glances at the broken pictures depicting ideas and thoughts given to you by the Second, as you maneuver through the shards of glass that litter the floors from the Third.
Hands brush one last time across the gritty walls of their broken love. Coating them in particles of bitterness which fight to be remembered.
Crossing the threshold into the arms of a newness not yet named, you leave them behind.
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