When you put your hands on my delicate skin, do you call that love?
When you see my eyes red and puffy from your screams, do you call that love?
When you see me begging for the ounce of reciprocation, do you call that love?
When you lose control and I am to blame do you call that love?
Daddy's little girl, I'll always be you say, but what happens when I'm no longer little?
Will you just lose interest in me?
Will you just stop loving me?
I thought that once I can touch the kitchen cabinets and fend for myself you would've provided an everlasting support.
Yet I am too old to be supported, do you call that love?
A unconditional love on the surface for the world to see but with conditions for me to meet.
I touch my skin and it reminds me of the missing link.
I subject myself to pain, to run away from the original pain.
An apology was never given to me for being my father, yet I apologized for being your daughter.
I was 17, I couldn't breathe, yet your image was more important than the oxygen I rely on.
Your image is more important than the ground I walk on.
Your image is more important than the brain I came on earth with.
Your image is more important than the mother I've lived with.
Your image is more important than the bed I slept on.
Your image is more important than any love I could ever offer.
I have decided to cut myself out of the picture.
I am the I am, you are the casted away unknown.
YOU ARE READING
The eyes of the sun
PoetryAs you read these poems, understand that I was incredibly intoxicated when I was feeling these emotions and/or these events. I write poetry in hopes to reach others, I am a small writer so sharing any of my content is greatly appreciated! My poems h...
