Papier-mâché

If I were to talk about a father the arcs of his ears are enough, yet, he would not talk, just like the heavens when you plead, as he is better now: he does not hide in his paternal loop, nor would he ridicule my son I have been hiding. He once knew that what was not written was unprincipled; now, I talk and he pertinaciously listens, unbothered by my pretentious tone. He speaks, but only at night— with his melted heart. I taught him to be more man: now, he would cling to me as if I were  a wife who cooks for her. I used to watch him with Mom's self-made perspective;  however, sometimes, you really have to switch taste—I still love horror,  but not anymore from my father's. After all, he still sees the child in me and the afraid. A father should be called pink and he shall not flinch. Freed from guns and loads, and he shall not be defeated; for he is still, and abandon is not his last name, as I still reweave his first name in my poems. He has been with me:  inherite...

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and  introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet,  I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!"  I still know how to stay still  when everybody sings me one.  My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel.  Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything  is still made of infinite loops,  as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.

" Death and life are a friend ,"  the old lesson keeps bludgeoning me. Death ripples through the streams and creeks that flow near the homes that depend on recollections.  Each of these bricks used to be housed by fine architectures,  now bound by white bands and prayers. On the front porch, the most-welcoming wreath of carnations,  which are enveloped by symmetrical stanchions,  greets every person that comes through it.  And I thought: if death comes near,  then life is nothing but sprout of vine reaching its arms to a far cry,  and never will it give you time to read every sentence death foretells. In this house, it now gives homage to the days I could remember but never hold. Here, I witness: Candles are as still as my stiff existence,  while the quietness of each life in the room screams. The sympathies dress black and how regrets strip my skin. But how could a friend hurt you when they only visit you once? That every gaze to the rectang...

Where do I room this grief? Every aisle has the pain: one corner lets me see through her weeping eyes. In the corridor lies a box of the garments that once felt her warmth in the coldest days. This particular section is known as the Circular Room wherein all the comforting lies are said, never acted upon. One step run in a lap is a heavy load. One room is another made—painted with cerulean-blue acrylic paint. There is another room where there is a canvass a plainly white canvass that I cannot embellish my tears with, so I will cover it with my blood. Every room is a room filled, yet empty.

 The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime  and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.