Varsha Patel


Pieces. Shreds of me
on the marble floor of my grand room.
Pretend praying, pretend playing.
No Mission Statement, no Vision.

My fucking father.
Sorry doesn’t make anything right
And my mother?
Scattered, lifted, by the good old Cape Doc.

My legacy.
I cower behind the brass lock, slipped into place.
His footsteps slam past my door.
Clouds mushrooming up in me. Like Jericho.

Money trapping me
Behind the locked door
Shards of me dissolve
in the acid of the fancy air.

Pieces. Shreds of me.
Forever broken
by his bites.
I crumble.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s