worry
Dec 19, 2021
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a prose
my mother speaks with her hands. i don’t know if my father talks with his hands because i don’t look at him when he speaks to me. i find comfort in our feet and looking into the blank spaces of my hands imagining my mother married and to a less intimidating version of my father. i wish i could tell him i dropped out of the debutante ball because i couldn’t stare into his aging swollen eyes. it’s like asking the sheep to remember the wolf is an animal too as it devours its brethren. i want to say i am afraid you won’t love me if i fail; that every move i make is another layer added to your disappointment.
thank you for reading my work.
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