To My Father

[Poe's Prodigy]

To My Father

Black, desperate despair,
Hidden beneath a red mask of rage,
Both trapped within the lie that is my life.

The angry words,
Sharper than any blade,
Are hurled through the infinite space between us,
Like so many empty, cold, dead hearts
Of what were once stars.
The words don’t hurt like the fear does.

When words fail, or when I am right,
You use your sheer mass,
Though not so different from mine.
I love too deeply, and am too weak to use mine.
I could hurt you. I know how to kill you,
But I don’t because somewhere I am a good person.
Not like you.
You know how to push me into that blind fear,
The fear in which I am helpless,
The fear in which I sob and cry out,
Cry out for the embrace which never comes.
I am alone in the fear and the pain,
And that hurts me more than any words,
Or any hand,
Or any pills ever could.

I am sobbing, stifling my cries,
Spilling my tears onto my blue-lined paper,
Trapped within the cool blues of the bathroom,
The only place in which I can lock myself away from you.