CW: Sexual abuse, vengeance and death
Today, you're a warm rabbit
curled up on my lap –
feet hushed and cuddly
like your hands never were.
They were always wandering
around the valleys of my skin,
printing amethyst necklaces
upon earthy flesh. Don't tell.
You were the one who knew how to mark graves
even before the corpse was buried.
I remember
how you branded me yours forever
and I wonder if this lifetime counts.
It still hurts.
You were the one who showed me what death looks like
even before the lungs give up the final sigh.
Now, you yield to my touch.
Dreamy. Like the boy your father
ripped out of your spine at five,
before he sharpened your nails into talons.
You're as quiet
in this moment as I was for a decade,
as if you know how the truth
could end generations before they could begin.
I remember
how you begged me to let go like I once did to you
and I wonder if in the afterlife, you're still crying.
It still hurts.
It looks as if you're mourning
all the strength you've lost as a human,
although you're not aware of it.
I remember
how your funeral reeked of innocent Cornelia flowers
and mine of German perfume and nicotine.
I was there.
Today, I kiss you on the forehead
and deem you beloved,
like you used to do to me
when I was little,
my soul clad with nothing but your sheets.
I haven't forgiven you yet,
not even after the bullet sang of my victory
and the last drop of crimson
had slithered away from the sink
but someday,
perhaps, after a thousand deaths,
someday, I will.
Fransivan MacKenzie is a nineteen-year-old storyteller born and raised in the Philippines. She is the author of Out of the Woods, a chapbook of poetry and prose. Her works also appeared in Transition Magazine, The Racket, Jaden Magazine, CP Quarterly Review and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter (@fransivanlights).