You say I resemble a flower; I partly agree; My brain is governed by black petals of burnt daisies - Anne Sexton

Now I am going back
And I have ripped my hand
From your hand as I said I would
And I have made it this far ...

Why have your eyes gone into their own room?

Each night I am nailed into place
and forget who I am.
Daddy?
That's another kind of prison.
It's not the prince at all,
but my father
drunkeningly bends over my bed,
circling the abyss like a shark,
my father thick upon me
like some sleeping jellyfish.
What voyage is this, little girl?
This coming out of prison?
God help -
this life after death?