Twice a year we wash the curtains, 

I see myself hanging upside down on the

rope as they dry. You pinch another 

clothes peg on my arm; the breeze 

offers no solace, just erroneous cold. 

How unfortunate is it, to be stuck under

an open sky. 

I am daunted by the things we do 

together like sharing afternoon tea; 

it is more burn than honey. I nod 

my head, passing biscuits as a form 

of truce. You say no and go back to 

your phone screen—as always. 

Cutting down on sugar, you say. 

I listen to Fiona Apple sing, I think of

running away, the unmade ties lying 

mercilessly in your closet remind me 

of silken scarfs. I wish you were somebody else.

A colour within a different spectrum of light,

one I could stand to be drenched by in the

mornings. 

On days the house is empty, I step out of the

box I call a bedroom and kill every photon

that retains your reflection. I read books you

disapprove of, name Darwin a god stuttering

around on floorboards you built. I take pills

you'd rather have thrown—these evenings are

a rattle inside a cage. 

I am twenty and terrified of talking to you, what

it makes of me and what it makes of us. You pray

every morning, and I stand close-by, wishing a

redemption upon you, may the heavens seek the

pulses of anger out of you, Father. I’ve tried to

love you for months at a time. I just never know

how.