I wake up from my trance
to brush my teeth,
I thought I was awake—

but I still see
the black
in the family toothpaste.

Not the red blood of war,
but fresh black froth
threatening my nostrils.

And seeing it, my heart gives way,
a small nod of forgiveness,
to my father’s sins.

The women who raised me
said this black dirt would fade
if I just squeezed the tube harder,

made way
for the pearl white
of a new morning.

And God was I
dying to see
clean toothpaste.

But when I squeezed,
more black, more grey
spilled out,

so I pressed and pressed,
until my fingers hurt,
but there were too many sins—

too much.
Too much had been done
that could not be washed away.

Too much
you’ve done, Papa,
like your father

and his before him.
Now the venom of centuries of patriarchy
has seeped into my toothpaste.

And it’s on me to wash,
rinse,
scrub it clean,

like my mother did,
like your mother did,
and their mothers before them.

I stare
at the floor,
to get a hold on my despair

It’s not white enough.
The ceiling—
not white enough - the walls.

They reek of the torment
you put these women through,
just like your father, and his father before him.

My tongue rolls in disgust
as I try to wash the red of this bloodline off me,
in vain.

I wake up from nightmares
where you choke me to death,
Papa,

and when I wake,
I pretend it’s over.
I try to believe

the air I breathe
is not stale,
but as dawn arrives,

I know
when I brush my crooked teeth
I got from you
it will never be okay.

They call me a brave girl
for speaking up,
for thinking so firmly.

But how do I tell them
how weak
I am in my bones?

You say I am brave,
but how do I tell you
my throat tightens
at the sound of your name?

They call me brave,
but how do I tell them
my legs tremble
when I face a man.

Not all men
are monsters, sure
but you,
you were the first man I met.

I am not brave, Papa.
If I ever was,
I choose now not to be.

And that word,
it stings my tongue,
it stings of betrayal.

What was meant to care,
to hold,
instead shattered me like glass.

Instead, it coils around my neck,
choking me,
your name,
a noose of plain air.

I never had you,
and yet you tell me
how you carried me in your arms,

how you glued me
to your chest,
how your laughter rang out when I was born.

The hospital, you say,
beamed with your joy.
And from that, Father,

I can only conclude:
it was the laugh
of a monster,
rejoicing in furthering his bloodline.

Today, I tell you,
with pride turned inside out,
how the hope inside me shrinks.

The kindness inside me
withers,
the truth that made me me—

gone.
I congratulate you, Papa,
for raising another monster,

and with such grace—
with no trace
of humanity left.

This is to you,
my father, who failed
as a father,

and your father,
who failed you,
and his father before him.

From a daughter
who no longer has the courage
to raise a daughter.

Doors

I don’t know what a home is
beyond the corners of my house
where my small body curls
into itself, hoping
to fit just right.

I am terrified
of doors,
the mere sight of them.

Brown doors,
white ones,
those with handles
and those with round knobs

Every door
echoes the same knock,
a loud bang
of HELP.

help...

Killing

Kill it, put an end to
the heavy breaths
that bother you,
the pinches and pricks
meant to annoy.

Rid yourself
of the scorching heat
that blisters your skin.

But how will you escape
the labyrinth within?

Starting Again

It was never
about being
incapable

It has always been
about the unreasonable obsession
to climb the stairs,
only to deliberately fall
and start again.

For you’ve been taught
to pick your broken heart,
your broken home,
the broken floor beneath,
and begin anew
with your broken
hope

What Color is Your Grief

None,
my grief
is camouflaged
in the sound
of the hypocrite,
his breaths
filling my house,
rendering me breathless.

It resides
in the space he occupies
in the house
that was meant for me too,

in the flashbacks
that arrive uninvited—
my frail body pushing him away
as he charges to harm.

What color is your grief, you ask,
none,
I reply,
but it is there,
I swear it is.

If my grief were a color,
I would drape it like a flag
that screams
HELP,
that shouts
you should see how I am bleeding,
that declares
I am a damaged one,
but there’s more to me
than you perceive.

But with all that has cursed me,
the curse finds no resting place.
My grief is every color the human eye can perceive,
perhaps that’s why you can’t see it.

It is brown,
the color of doorways,
but even when I am out,
it remains.

What color is your grief,
you say,
an adamant one,
it just stays.

My grief is a busy road
where you can
never
see the cars coming to hit you dead.

My grief is shattered glass
that even I cannot see,
but all I hear is
don’t bleed.

It is so invisible
that today, when I let it spill,
I see pieces of myself,
internal organs,
exposed like showpieces.

I never realized
my grief was parts of me,
and perhaps what stopped me from writing
was my need to breathe.

Now, as I bleed this out,
I rush to your arms, panting,
holding you to fill the voids I have spilled,
seeking to be whole again.

I wanted none of it,
but it is me.
My grief is every color I can be.

And when you tell me
that you love me—every piece,
I scream,
don’t you see?
My filthy grief hides in this very body
that you love so easily.