One of my parents was a flame, the other a rope.
one was a blanket, the other a dial tone. In
the night I would wrap myself in the comfort of the cotton, the gentle scents of cinnamon, and my loneliness.
One of my parents prayed for Winter, the other hid till Spring.
one was an eyelash, the other a smirk. How the they assumed each other. In the revolving door of my becoming, one pushed outside, the other never left.
One of my parents was made from Fire, the other from Ice.
the crooked, insincere handwriting tattooed on my lower back. a constant reminder that words are more permanent than people.
One of my parents was a star, burning through the night.
the other, a cup I held hesitantly
with two hands, convinced It was
too fragile. one of my parents drank, the other I dreamt. the cold press of comforting hands rocking me to sleep while the other radiating perfect in my mind.
One was a candle, the other a bird.
I was ashamed of burning, frightened I’d never learn to fly. I was a girl, lost across an open sea, missing someone not missing.
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