The bare branches sway as the winter air blows through them.
My body cling to the blanket around me.
My pillow rests my head as my busy eyes watched the trees.
Leaves blow and dance amongst each other.
The wind whispers to me through the cracks in my window.
My unfurnished apartment lays still while my rambunctious kittens dash through it.
My body is weak,
My brain is numb,
But my eyes are fixed on the branches and the leaves.
Winter is here, November has arrived
And I think I just might die.
I don’t remember much from my childhood,
I don’t even know what my first memories were.
But I remember small things.
Like the movement of my momma’s hands while she cooks.
Like the paper airplanes my father made.
Like the vanilla wafer and cheese snacks my parents gave me.
Like the moment my father taught me how to snap my fingers and the moment he taught me how to whistle.
Like the phrase, “It has to be perfect.”
Like the taste of leftover cake mix on an empty bowl.
Like the feeling of fresh grass and concrete on my toes.
Like the nights sleeping in my momma’s bed when father would get off late.
Like the feeling of scrapping my knees on the neighbor’s steps.
I remember big things too.
Like the punishments my parents and relatives would give me.
Like the fantasies about running away from my family and never seeing them again.
Like the envy I had for my momma’s effortless beauty.
Like the cruel, cruel treatment of other students.
Like the early, unwanted sexual experiences before the age of nine.
Like the feeling of a blade against my thighs skin.
Like the pain of fresh cuts against jeans.
Like the first day I started taking medicine.
Like the nights where I would talk, cry, and beg to the moon because it was my own comfort and the only thing that would listen.
My childhood is a blur and I wish I could remember it,
But, I guess, it is a good thing that I don’t.
The moment my dad told me he didn’t love me
Wasn’t very shocking.
It was disturbing,
But also confirming.
Days before this happened,
I already had thoughts about how my dad didn’t love me or show me much affection and attention as a child.
He didn’t show up to any of my concerts,
He always backed out of taking me somewhere,
And he even showed up after my high school graduation.
It was bad to the point my teachers thought my mom was a single mom.
There were good moments and memories,
But he still wasn’t really there.
The moment my dad told me he didn’t love me
I couldn’t focus on his comments for too long.
I had to clean up my apartment,
Take care of my kittens,
Prepare dinner,
And go to work.
“That’s what grown people do.”
Mind you,
I’m not even in my twenties.
My dad prioritized his job before he would prioritize his wife and daughter.
My dad would make sexist remarks and told me I would never marry because I’m not submissive.
Mind you,
I am very submissive and motherly to the men I am dealing with.
But I am not going to be submissive to my dad.
My dad never saw me as his equal
Or his daughter.
So the moment my dad told me he didn’t love me
Was an weird moment,
But comforting.
The Paramour 