Memories of my Father




My father pulled a knife on me the last time we spoke.
In return, I handed him the remains of my heart,

Ashes in a box of out of tune lullabies.


They sound like screams of life lessons,

that I never received.

How it’s my fault,

when he sees his reflection in rocks and powder.

How I am a constant reminder of his greatest mistake.


The blunt laced with LSD and a hint of creation.

A hit of responsibility,

Lying somewhere between the day,

I came into this world, four months too early

and the last four hours he spent with me.


I am his daughter.

Holding family reunions in boxing rings,

while darkness slips further from the background.

Women lying on their backs,

tarnished from the triggers,

of their men’s egos.


My father is dangerous.

A recitation and rhetoric from my childhood.


Staring through hourglass figures,

he found himself,

desperately trying to find himself in,

women transformed into step ladders

and Ciroc bottles,

both responsible for his downfall.


He is a mirror image of the father,

Who over sighted his own.

He’s been known to own his pain.

The men in my family,

have swords replacing the spines in their backs.

They carve caricatures into the women they carry.

They mold them into figurines.


The women in my family,

are porcelain and perfect.

They promise to be silent,

knowing pain is the diamond on a wedding ring.


We learn to bite the bullet beneath the frosting,

take the knife and carve our children from our womb,

just to continue a cycle.


I am a sacrifice,

tired of throwing ashes into flames

and wondering why I continue to be burned alive.

My family is a stake that I have tied myself to,

just to keep peace.

My father has words of gasoline

and a match for a tongue.

My heart was made of papier-mâché,

the day I was born.

I guess God was still trying to mold me.


Maybe even He forgot that I am only human.

When my father says he doesn’t love me,

those words remain in memory.


He said that he doesn’t care,

if he ever walks me down the aisle,

or sees any of my children.


So he can’t marry me off,


to a man who doesn’t love me.

I will know the signs,

before lying daddy issues at an altar,

to receive a new name.


No one will rip generations from my womb,

they will find safety within me.

My children will be born of a Phoenix.

They will know,

that something beautiful always grows from cinder.


I am just the center of chaos and coal,

with bittersweet bloodshed as my birthright.


My father has taught me,

that some people are born,

with hearts like wildfires.

They can’t help but destroy what lies in their path.


I refuse to be anyone’s catastrophe.   


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741