Untitled 2
Tracy Bersley
it's frightening to think that I'd rather starve than ask my father for
money — but when he looks at me sitting on his nice new Aztec couch
as if i am an intruder in this space, all i can think to say as he shuts
the door behind himself is, bye dad — but the door closes too quickly
and my cries are mockingly covered up by the jingling christmas bells
that still hang on the door in may.
i stay in this eclectic decor on holidays and vacations — he pays
the rent while i pay for the loneliness of having a father who went
along with the child-bearing tradition some twenty years ago and
lives every day in regret.
i think my presence here ages him, and i become the
unforgivable sin — the girl who reveals his antiquity. . .
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