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Literature Text
Dear Daddy,
I have seen what you used to be. I have peeled back your tragic skin and found long hair and bright eyes and brighter dreams hiding underneath. I have seen the photographs and I have heard your laugh, a laugh that tears apart reality and recreates it in the technicolor hues of a 60's dreamscape. I have uncovered the corners of your dreams and brushed away the dust and you are beautiful, somewhere under the tired eyes and lined skin you shine like a beacon in a cloudy night.
I know that this is not what you wanted. I know that you dreamed of Hollywood and kingdoms built on the words you spilled across so many pages from the trapdoors in your fingers. I know you wanted friends and prestige and to retire in the mountains. I know you wanted to change the world, and I also know this isn't what you had in mind. I know I'm not what you had in mind.
You are not long hair and bright eyes anymore. You are not dreaming of Hollywood or a world that was better because you were in it. No, you are curled in the bottom of a bottle, licking up the last drops of alcohol with a blistered tongue. Most days, you don't remember my name. The others, you scream it at me as if sheer volume will make up for so much ignorance. It doesn't. It won't. It can't. You are proving to me every day that I ruined everything. You are saying it a thousand different ways, and showing me even more. You look up from your half empty bottle of scotch and your eyes say You are not what I wanted.
In movies, the dad is always the one who holds things together. He wears suits and combs his hair and knows how to fix things, like cars and sinks and broken hearts. He has even white teeth and his eyes crinkle up at the edges when he smiles.
But you? You are a cyclone. You are rage and hypocrisy and insensitivity. You are bitter sarcasm and a drunken whirlwind of mistake mistake mistake. You don't bring us together; you tear us apart. You drop the shattered pieces into our outstretched palms and tell us to fix it ourselves. You put us through hell because you do not know what else to do.
Sometimes I want to hate you. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I inhale the fictional fathers of tv soaps and feel-good novels and you taste bitter in comparison. Sometimes I wish that you would disappear.
It is because of you, after all. It is because of you that I am so afraid: of being wrong, of being unwanted, of being loved. I have tasted your love and it is cyanide, it is arsenic, it is poison poison poison and it has taught me that the world is a cruel and ugly place. You have taught me this. You have kissed my cheek with sad eyes and margarita breath and torn apart any idealism I dared to cling to.
Sometimes I wish you would disappear. Always, I wish you were different. I wish I wish I wish.
But: I also don't. Because you sang me to sleep when I was younger and when you tell me I am beautiful, I feel like I could fly if I only spread my wings.
Oh, Daddy. You are not what I would have chosen. But yours will always be the arms I slip between when the world is burning. Yours will always be the hand I reach for when I'm at the edge of a cliff. Yours will always be the face I search for approval when I doubt myself. Yours will always be the smile I use to light the twisted path of my memories, even if it is your darkness that makes it hard to see in the first place. You will always be the one I trust to protect me from the monsters you proved were all too real.
You are not what I wanted, but I am not what you wanted either. I'm sorry I stood in the path of your dreams and made them tumble off the tracks in an attempt to avoid crushing me. I'm sorry I am selfish and clumsy and not at all what you imagined. I'm sorry I am not what you dreamed or hoped or expected. I am trying, I am trying so hard, to be good enough. It is all I've ever wanted to be, you know: good enough for you.
I will never really forgive you, but I understand. And I will always love you, Daddy, I will always, always love you. I hope that you can find it in yourself to love me back.
I have seen what you used to be. I have peeled back your tragic skin and found long hair and bright eyes and brighter dreams hiding underneath. I have seen the photographs and I have heard your laugh, a laugh that tears apart reality and recreates it in the technicolor hues of a 60's dreamscape. I have uncovered the corners of your dreams and brushed away the dust and you are beautiful, somewhere under the tired eyes and lined skin you shine like a beacon in a cloudy night.
I know that this is not what you wanted. I know that you dreamed of Hollywood and kingdoms built on the words you spilled across so many pages from the trapdoors in your fingers. I know you wanted friends and prestige and to retire in the mountains. I know you wanted to change the world, and I also know this isn't what you had in mind. I know I'm not what you had in mind.
You are not long hair and bright eyes anymore. You are not dreaming of Hollywood or a world that was better because you were in it. No, you are curled in the bottom of a bottle, licking up the last drops of alcohol with a blistered tongue. Most days, you don't remember my name. The others, you scream it at me as if sheer volume will make up for so much ignorance. It doesn't. It won't. It can't. You are proving to me every day that I ruined everything. You are saying it a thousand different ways, and showing me even more. You look up from your half empty bottle of scotch and your eyes say You are not what I wanted.
In movies, the dad is always the one who holds things together. He wears suits and combs his hair and knows how to fix things, like cars and sinks and broken hearts. He has even white teeth and his eyes crinkle up at the edges when he smiles.
But you? You are a cyclone. You are rage and hypocrisy and insensitivity. You are bitter sarcasm and a drunken whirlwind of mistake mistake mistake. You don't bring us together; you tear us apart. You drop the shattered pieces into our outstretched palms and tell us to fix it ourselves. You put us through hell because you do not know what else to do.
Sometimes I want to hate you. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I inhale the fictional fathers of tv soaps and feel-good novels and you taste bitter in comparison. Sometimes I wish that you would disappear.
It is because of you, after all. It is because of you that I am so afraid: of being wrong, of being unwanted, of being loved. I have tasted your love and it is cyanide, it is arsenic, it is poison poison poison and it has taught me that the world is a cruel and ugly place. You have taught me this. You have kissed my cheek with sad eyes and margarita breath and torn apart any idealism I dared to cling to.
Sometimes I wish you would disappear. Always, I wish you were different. I wish I wish I wish.
But: I also don't. Because you sang me to sleep when I was younger and when you tell me I am beautiful, I feel like I could fly if I only spread my wings.
Oh, Daddy. You are not what I would have chosen. But yours will always be the arms I slip between when the world is burning. Yours will always be the hand I reach for when I'm at the edge of a cliff. Yours will always be the face I search for approval when I doubt myself. Yours will always be the smile I use to light the twisted path of my memories, even if it is your darkness that makes it hard to see in the first place. You will always be the one I trust to protect me from the monsters you proved were all too real.
You are not what I wanted, but I am not what you wanted either. I'm sorry I stood in the path of your dreams and made them tumble off the tracks in an attempt to avoid crushing me. I'm sorry I am selfish and clumsy and not at all what you imagined. I'm sorry I am not what you dreamed or hoped or expected. I am trying, I am trying so hard, to be good enough. It is all I've ever wanted to be, you know: good enough for you.
I will never really forgive you, but I understand. And I will always love you, Daddy, I will always, always love you. I hope that you can find it in yourself to love me back.
- Elena
Literature
dont write under the influence
Dr. Asclepius called me;
he told me i'm bipolar
(i still say it's luxuria)
My prescription?
Fucking medicine.
Take two pills:
Doctor's Orders
(as if anyone actually
obeys those, anyway)
Take another pill.
One for each time
you looked at me,
then two more if
i had looked back.
i'll take one more for that time you
branded fake
Literature
PTSD
- - -
every night you scream at someone. i try to tell you they're not there; they don't exist. but you can't hear me. your body writhes like a tornado and the covers are bathed with sweat.
it must feel like blood to you. that must be why you howl yourself hoarse. why i sleep with earmuffs gripped tight and dream of you dying.
(it used to be a nightmare, but now it's more of a wish.)
- - -
you mumble to the same someone while you eat those crumbly cornflakes. something about something that i don't think you entirely understand.
i don't know why i still make you a bowl every day. you think i would learn after the thirteenth time of broom
Literature
Six Word Story
Only six words?!
How the hell—
Suggested Collections
"i saw her, yeah i saw her
with her black tongue tied round the roses
a fist pounding on a vending machine
toy diamond ring stuck on her finger
with a noose she can hang from the sun
and put it out with her dark sunglasses
walking crooked down the beach
she spits on the sand
where their bones are bleaching
and i know i'm gonna steal her life
she doesn't even know what's wrong
and i know i'm gonna make her die
take her where her soul belongs
and i know i'm gonna steal her life
nothing that i wouldn't try
hey, my cyanide girl"
-girl, beck
this requires some explanation. it is an assignment, so it is purely, uninhibitedly real and true and honest. this does not mean you can't critique it. it is not fiction, but it is writing, and you will not hurt me by telling me you don't like it.
as for girl, my dad once told me that he could have written the above part about me. we are not perfect, but we are trying.
with her black tongue tied round the roses
a fist pounding on a vending machine
toy diamond ring stuck on her finger
with a noose she can hang from the sun
and put it out with her dark sunglasses
walking crooked down the beach
she spits on the sand
where their bones are bleaching
and i know i'm gonna steal her life
she doesn't even know what's wrong
and i know i'm gonna make her die
take her where her soul belongs
and i know i'm gonna steal her life
nothing that i wouldn't try
hey, my cyanide girl"
-girl, beck
this requires some explanation. it is an assignment, so it is purely, uninhibitedly real and true and honest. this does not mean you can't critique it. it is not fiction, but it is writing, and you will not hurt me by telling me you don't like it.
as for girl, my dad once told me that he could have written the above part about me. we are not perfect, but we are trying.
© 2010 - 2024 papergirl88
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