Conversations

“I talk, you listen,” he breathes, begins his tirade.
There is no end.
I listen, he talks, I breathe, bite my tongue.
There is no use.

I tried.

And nothing he says is true. He pauses for an rankling achoo.
Daddy, I wish I were through.

Like the shoe you chucked at me, like the broom
the wound smarts but it isn’t you.

“I talk, you listen,” he shouts, his temples red.
There is no home.
I cry, he yells, I run, bite my tongue.
There is no base.

I did. I tried.

My words don’t seem to come through. I pause for a second or two.
His hands are still on the shoe.

Like the tiles I fall on, like the door
it’s as cold as when I was born.

I can’t hear his words anymore, above the cries of war,
I’ll just stay here on the floor.

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About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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