Varsha Patel

Pieces

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.

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