for she who will no longer read

they complain that i don’t sing of them

write of them

think of them

“all your songs are about her”

i try to warn them. 

“you don’t want me writing songs about you. that means it’s over.”

and

“Why don’t you write anything for me? Have I not touched you deep enough to spill back out?”

and they assign worth

and i guess i understand

this is what i did with my father’s writing

after he left me to my own path

scanning dedications

titles

verses

for my name

for any mention of me

to know i was real in his world

to know i existed

to know i mattered

to know i took up space in his life

just one moment

any moment

just one damn writing moment

and

no.

what can i say in defense of the artist?

nada.

what can i say in defense of my father?

nada.

what can i say about the girl who feels i love everyone more than her?

it began as a protection. i guess that’s why it hurts now to be accused of being unfeeling.

i protected you from their eyes, my love.

of course i can come back here and construct any story. have them all hating you. the pen is a gift to me. but i swore i wouldn’t do that. after writing songs about The Infamous….after exposing her to the world. i vowed i’d keep your name and our stories off the internet.

and years later this became “why do you never write about me”?

you want me to write about you?

i never deserved you. 

you are a wood nymph, a forest spirit. a poem itself, you are. the sound of water to a dying man. the dawn electricity animating dandelion skeletons. 

i am but a channel carved by ancient rivers. the smell of blood. vendetta and obsidian. longing. 

i ought be grateful for your gentle touch.

but one way or another…

you and i are the fallow ground under the fallen flower. we are the smell of autumn in winter’s mouth. we are fossil.