23.
He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.
I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.
My Father
When I tried to hug my father goodbye,
he kept his hands in his pockets.
Instead of an I love you,
he sat inside his car and slammed the door shut.
When “I Can’t Make You Love Me” played over the radio,
I thought of how relevant the title was for my father
and all three of his daughters.
I never shed a tear for his disappointment.
When I was fourteen,
I was burdened by nightmares
where he stood as a god above me,
kicking thunder to my ribs.
When my first boyfriend kissed me, I told myself
that if my own father couldn’t find
time in his heart for me,
no one would.
I turned that boy into an ant
and crushed him.
(Source: ghostly-girls)
23.
He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.
I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.
(via whale-bone)
23.
He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.
I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.
23.
He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.
I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.
23.
He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.
I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.
(Source: whale-bone)
