Isa Velasquez
an average tuesday
Rivers run red, raw from the screams of pain
Blood boils hot, who left the fire burning?
Tears leap down stained cheeks
When will the wars end?
How many cries must spill?
How much anger must erupt?
The house has not been quiet for many years
The walls and smiling picture frames shudder at memories of slamming doors,
Wails of misunderstandings
May the dove not be preyed on by the raging hawk
May the dove deliver peace upon the home
another love letter
I remain hidden within my room; I can hear
everything. The clunk of keys being picked up
makes my stomach sick. I suppose not many
would associate the sound of keys with such a
negative feeling, but others don’t know what
we do. They don’t know that the clattering of
the keys is the slamming of the door. The leaving,
the abandoning. Oh, there goes our front one
closing with aggression. He never strays from
the script, the prompts, always the perfect act.
I know what comes next.
Each of us will exit our burrows like
rabbits, cautious, watching, waiting to see if
the predator has left. Mum’s face will be stained
with the trails of her tears. Her eyes swollen;
the pretty green colouring faded from its usual
radiant shine. She will hold us and whisper
sweet things. Make promises that will ultimately
be broken.
We don’t need him; we can do this
without him. Mum, we both know that mentality
won’t last long. Only a few days or a few weeks.
During his absence when we don’t know where
the hell he’s been skulking around. Probably crying
into empty booze bottles and anger wrapping his
heart in chains. Squeezing, hurting, knowing
he’d fucked up.
Again.
Scripts, terrible scripts are everything
in this family. Which is great for me since
I enjoy predictability. Which is why I know he’s
going to be back.
He won’t be here anymore! I promise!
Sure mum, sure. Let’s just wait until we hear that
postman leave, our mailbox now full.
Another apology.
i once loved an arsonist
His blood is hot, his skin blisters
He carries the smell of burning flesh
He is on fire
When you realise you are on fire, naturally you do not stay put
Allowing your flames to lick our straw toes
A ticklish sort of pain
You would douse yourself in water hoping to be purified
But he didn’t
He looked in the mirror and shrugged at the sight of his singed hair
We screamed jump in the water, and he coughed smoke into our mouths
Ashes landing on our tongues like memories of snowflakes
He saw he were on fire
and he continued to stroll through the dry grass
He watched us dance in the rain
Wishing to join us but not moving an inch from the safety of our sanctuary
The roof of our house indulged in his flames
Burning our home to the ground
Burning the world to the ground
Until there was nothing but hellish fire
A world that reflected his own heart
the wisdom of abba
He steps through the door
Laughter fills the air
Joy suffocates our lungs
Love rips into our hearts
The clock rewinds to the beginning
Back to cuddles,
back to morning kisses and piggyback rides
Diving into pools during hot summers
fingers sticky with melted ice-cream
Tick, tick, tick, the clock moves forward
Ugly language bruising our faces
Doors slamming like thunder
Hope drowning in heavy oceans of tears
I peer over at his military issued watch
The building caught fire a lot sooner than I thought
Jailed for arson, not to worry
He’s on probation for good behaviour
Dad comes home
Mamma Mia, here we go again
playing dress up
When I was a little girl, I was a princess
Plastic tiara, gems lost under my bed
A pink gown caked in glitter, sparkling artificially
Leaving the house was a fashion show
Funky sunglasses, vibrant coats, little boots
All prettied up like an American girl doll
A ground-breaking actress in games of pretend
Crowds of teddy bears cheering,
Mr Ribbons wipes inspired tears from his eyes
Then, every now and again
I would be tasked with a very difficult role
Pearls resting on my chest
Lipstick scribbled on like a clown
Wobbly in high heels
She is too sad to go on stage
And so, roles are reversed
Baby becomes mummy
Mummy becomes baby
I hold her face and wipe her tears
Give her kisses on her swollen eyes
Hold her heart as it grieves once again
Don’t worry poor baby, mummy is here
It will be okay I would say
Holding my baby and stroking her hair as she wept
Mummy will take care of you
I will take care of you
Isa Velasquez is an aspiring poet, currently studying at QUT. She hopes to create work that others can relate to so they no longer feel alone like she has felt in the past. She hopes to one day publish her work.