wanting to write but not being able to, having the want but not the means, the creativity ceases to flow, a pen hovering over a blank page, that I will only stare at for hours more.

it is the end of a new beginning.

it is the time of day where people have their closure.

or they speak with a loved one in which the sky holds in the form of painted clouds and wispy trails

or perhaps it is the end of a journey for themselves and they seek peace.

sunsets are made to rekindle.

softness is nostalgia —and that is, my imaginary nostalgia someplace I miss yet somewhere I never been

perhaps in a gentle summer from some years of my past or maybe in another life of mine,

I would be living by the quiet countryside in a cottage with open windows to let the breezes in and clotheslines to hang the warm linen, bleached by pale sunlight and clouds of billowing dust from untouched treasures and floating thoughts a place to just

be.

softness would be laying on the roof with my mind to write its literature or running through that open prairie with grasses to tickle my nose and the wind to dance in my hair

somehow I have these memories of a life I have never felt.

and I shall continue to dream.

i am made entirely of flaws, stitched together by good intentions, my mouth can only spit venom leaving my heart to make interventions

a shield; my eyes appear cold iron but beneath i have a soul not many people care because they only believe

what they’ve been told.

we aren’t friends anymore but it doesn’t mean i don’t miss you.

even if you don’t care, or if you’ve made yourself forget me—

i don’t think i will ever stop feeling the way i do about you

 i love you
i miss your voice

i miss your smile i miss your laugh i miss your dogs and your brother i miss the way you made me feel loved

but that was all back then, not now.

they say the eldest daughter always gets her father’s temper and it’s true. that’s why we can’t get along for shit.

i hate the way you talk, the way i have your face— —the fact that we are the

same _ fucking _ _ person._

you hate the way i call you out for being a hypocrite, and you hate it because you know that i’m fucking right.

i’m always right when it comes to you.

and i know i may not see everything you do for me but it would be great if you would fucking talk to me. i know you wonder what i’m thinking, and i wonder the same about you.

would you even love me if i stopped playing my sport? because right now that’s all it seems to be. we all know i’m not your favorite.

me playing basketball is just a fragment of your fucking childhood trying to live through me because you couldn’t fucking have it. __ i hate when you pull that fucking immigrant card on me too. we all have problems but when you compare yours to mine, it’s like mine won’t ever be worthy, enough, valid. __ i’m so done when you tell me to stop crying after my games because i’m upset, call me a crybaby, but then when i don’t cry, you ask why i don’t care.

and after all this, you wonder why i can’t open the hell up to you.

i know that i am selfish, and hurtful, but i try. i try to put things in perspective, and i tell myself that we don’t even have much time together. but then you come along and fuck it up, making me forget why i even tried in the first place.

nothing will ever hurt the same as the way i envy the relationships other fathers and daughters have and wishing that i could have that.

i don’t want to be like this. __ i am so, so angry.

i am filled with so much hate, and it has nowhere to go.

and it wasn’t always like this, so tell me what went wrong, when all this happened.

you make me wonder if there truly is a problem between us, if it’s you or if it’s me, and if i’m just making all of this up in my head.

i don’t want us to be marked as something like “daddy issues” because that’s not what we used to be but now rather something we are becoming.

yet i still love you.

{let me get this out of my system, guys. i’m literally so done with living right now}

i miss your smile and your laugh and your eyes, your warm brown eyes.

i miss your voice. please, talk to me again even though i know it won’t ever be the same.

please just acknowledge me, because i can’t do this anymore.

it would heal me if you could just say

i love you __ __ one last time. even if it’s as a friend.

you don’t have to, though.

{sorry about not writing for a while and putting this piece of shit together. i don’t know how to be motivated but this is me trying because i miss writing. i’ll try harder tomorrow}

there is a man of medicine he carries them to all for the sick with any illness and for creatures big and small

much he has accomplished but there is one more thing he has a last cure to conquer one that you would never think

he longs for more than anything— -worth more than any wealth he wishes for one to ease his mind the cure for himself

I was kind I was patient I was loving I was forgiving I was reslient I was faithful I was dedicated I was empathetic

and I really believed.

and through these series the months and months of carrying out, trying out new theories and hypotheses and formulas-- --was when I learned that sometimes

there really is nothing you can do.

with nervous heartbeats jittery as a mouse I make my way down the stairs

avoiding eye contact is the first challenge— —often ineffective but I still do it.

my jacket I grab and my shoes I put on whilst feeling three pairs of eyes burning into my back.

where do you think you’re going, young lady? mom crosses her arms an eyebrow raised in question.

to lacey’s house I reply coolly

my father steps in. laundry? the dishes? your room?

yes I reply again staying under control.

now the final breach the head of security: my sister.

finding new things to entice her with is getting harder especially with her having a reputation for being a

snitch.

the corners of her lips turn upwards; a challenge. I send signals with my eyes mouth a couple words as she thinks it over

she accepts.

mom, dad, she’s not lying. __

I leave the house, finally able to breathe.