Magic

Location

99141
United States
48° 46' 30.4788" N, 118° 10' 37.3404" W

I am young.
Blonde hair moves past my eyes,
As I play in the dirt.
My irises are big and innocent.

An emerald paint surrounds my pupils,
And you tell me they look like the forest.
I think of butterflies and spotted deer,
Because I am young and no nothing else.

These were the days when you held my hand,
And taught me everything there was.
You would point at the daisies and tell me their name.
I thought you were made of magic.
I thought everything was made of magic.

Years later we sat together,
My big overbite and my over-sized clothes sat beside you.
I wore skater shoes and listened to Linkin Park.
I was afraid of puberty.
I knew magic didn’t exist.

But you taught me my multiplication tables,
And at first I hated them.
But now I know how magical they are,
And how magical they will be forever.

But I wonder if you poured your magic into me.
The magic in your eyes is dull, bland,
Graying over the many years.
The magic does not escape your lips.
There is no more knowledge,
There is no more wonder.

When I hear you speak,
The voice becomes deep and bitter,
Angry at the sight of me.
When I hear you listen,
I only see my voice echo back to me,
And your mind does no thinking.

Those green innocent eyes have become angry at the sight of yours.
I fight hypocrisy,
But I am scared.
The magic can no longer remind me,
The magic is no longer there,
To tell me I am loved.
The magic is no longer in your sensory organs,
And I feel as if magic is dead.

Magic is only replaced by anger.
Alcohol fills your glass by six in the evening,
And so I go to my room.
I curl into my bed until late of the night,
Unable to sleep due to your drunken screams.

I lie to them,
I tell them that I’m doing okay,
And they believe me.
They don’t know what happens here.
They don’t understand what I do.

The blood trickles down my fingertips,
And I watch it drip into the sink.
I do finger painting on the white ceramic,
And I run the water,
Just to see it swirl down the drain.

My skin is hot and sweaty,
Beads of moisture prickling on my forehead,
My hair sticks to my cheeks.

I stare into the foggy mirror,
And I see the forest against the glass.
I see that hand gripping yours,
The hand that once held a daisy,
And called it magic.

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