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My Father is a Ghost Story

My father is a horror film from my relatives' view―
Fine cinematography, grotesque plot.
I watch closely as he approaches to me,
With his feet inherited from my grandfather―
a reason for feminine quivers.
Splashed blood all over my creatively-built floor.
Of color, of preference, of kind,
Fuchsia excorticata, I sowed, a foreign shrub from our land.


/peach, carnation pink, 
the light palettes of my art.
Blue is a definitive color, always his/


/Man is a default face of strength,
And I have always been a lover of fuchsia plants/


Rewarded by countless recognitions―
My father is keen to materialize the pride of his labour.
Intimidating aroma of the sandalwood base notes
of his Polo Sport,
he profusely sprayed the bucks out of his lucrative job.
"I prefer the manly scent," an echoing emphasis
as he comes to me to embrace his heir, his control.
Gnashing teeth as he grins, kisses the son's floral-scented hair
as if carrying me in his arms in 2006
by the manhood's firm muscles, and reiterated how musk was a natural perfume.


The ghost story is my father―with an unending denouement,
and my mother does watch it with me.


I watch as he eyes me;
nothing but stare―stiff,
as I hear him insinuate his virility.

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