cinnamon thighs and daddy boys • poetry

year 12

in year 12, your daddy came back. i'm sorry.

(kinda)

he said he was sorry.

(he wasn't really.)

and you almost punched him. you were older now. he couldn't manipulate you anymore. you told him to fuck off, and you told him your best friend was a paki-stani.

(woah there, son)

everything he had told you was a lie. he wanted another chance.

(that, too, was a lie.)

then you left. and you came to me. it was 3am in the morning and i snuck out of the house. we went to the garage you worked at. you were a rich boy, what with your daddy sending you money despite having left you, but you weren't one to go for a pity dollar. so you worked. and the garage became your second home. it smelled just like you, gasoline and raw metal. but the air tasted of passion and salty tears.

and then finally, after 8 years, you cried. you sat down on the ground, with your head propped on my shoulder, and you cried. i felt your bubble getting smaller, as it rained down on us, tears of mercury drenching our tired souls.

then with your salt stained lips, you kissed me.

i asked if you were sure. if you knew what you were doing. if the sadness was clouding your thoughts.

but you said you were sure. you knew what you were doing. and these had been your thoughts for a while now.