I really have never reached out to you, though you are always there floating at the back of my mind. You were the most incredible artist I have ever met. I always saw images of the world you lived in, dancing around your body. You couldn't be here, you weren't. You couldn't look me in the eye and be here, for you, for me, for... anyone.
As an adult I understand you. I am just beginning to grasp the beauty that I caught from you and the pain it causes to others and myself and now understand how my own pain fermented and I really truly felt you. I was very much caught in a cycle of abuse, molestation, neglect, upheaval, and as a child it was difficult for me to understand why I wanted you. I would dance in this world with you but you would not see me, I remember a moment when I begged for you to just look at me and you could not. You didn't want me there. I needed you to be there with me.
I wanted you, Father, I had dreams about your hands coming out of flowers. They drew the faces of dripping monsters onto napkins.
I had a dream once when I was younger that my mother was driving me to school, then I was driving and holding her hand, and I looked down and it was your hand growing out of her womb, and she spread her legs with her hands and your hand became a cock. And I did not let go of it. I couldn't look away to watch the road. It smelled like Frankincense. My mothers eyes were yours and hers. She grabbed my wrist and climbed onto me. Her hand was on my pussy and your hand was on my throat. I couldn't say a word. There was love and there was anger. I felt hot and wet and sharp pains in my belly. She raped me with you, and I crashed the car. The blood was warm and thick and sticky. You screamed into me.
Father, I awoke then... Coming in the arms of my lover. His hands were on my pussy and in my mouth, and we fucked and fucked and made a child. I carried him for eight long months. My lover drugged me and dragged me to a barn. I awoke in pain. Immense and heavy and soft and white... And I could not lift my self. And the blanket that he left me under was stained, and wrapped underneath me. I lifted it up and saw him. Pieces of a fetus, sticky brown black and I felt down and pulled the placenta out of me. I wanted to eat him. I wanted you to hold me, I needed you to look at me, I needed not to know you at all. And I didn't really. And I laid there dying for two more days, maybe. I ate the placenta in my sleep. My body wanted to live. Most bodies do. They rape you and rape you and live you and rape you.
And I found myself outside. I dug with my hands. I buried our child. I heard gunshots in the distance, and everything was sweating. My babe stood beside me as I pushed the earth over his body. There were your hands, growing out of flowers.
Father, The trees were made of eyes and they were kind and cold and curious and warm. And I screamed at the top of my lungs and collapsed to sleep for another six years. And now it is morning
and I need
and I want