Dad used to come back home with the tenacious fetor of cigarettes and paint pummeled on his t-shirt.
I used to sit in melancholy on his heaving chest and admiring this transcendence scent.
I always imagined it like vodka and cranberry juice, my tastebuds itching for a delicate taste.
My fragile ears always listening to the awkward way his heart reverb.
Staring out into the vast and empty sky,
I used to wished I could disappear.
Looking at the fireflies and the other insects: wings sparkling when they hit the incandescent.
I miss daddy’s drunken steps.
I think mom missed when she used to yell.
Depression kept me isolated from friends,
I now have keen interest for books and pen.
I hope daddy is with God; high above the pearly whites gates.
I hope daddy is ascending the heavenly stairs.
I used to be daddy’s little girl.
I used to be happy,
But what is happiness, if dad is dead?