Dear Tingo

By , Savage, MN

You’re visiting again.
You’re taking all of my clothes, even the dirty ones.
The traces of dust that once caressed my furniture,
there is still a dent from when your fingers had wiped it away so fiercely.

 

 

The dark scares me.
It’s when your voice gets louder
and my vision secluded.
The only way out of the darkness seems to be you.
You’re loud and demanding,
a beacon amongst the tightly grasped sheets.
“Oh,” screamed my silhouette,
“the light scares me.”

 

 

You’re taking too much time.
My hands grab at your arms, but I am soon tired of trying.
I won’t protest,
you promised that you’ll bring it back.
It’s exciting, your frequent visits have become so familiar.

 

 

I make a lot of food for you now.

You seem to enjoy it, your hands quickly swiping across the plates,

completely forgetting about the cutlery.
The chairs creak underneath us, the yellow paint is starting to peel off.
They look kind of red now, but I hide the legs behind my dress.

 

 

I have to wash my clothes by hand now,
the stains can’t seem to come off.
Everything used to be black and white,
but I’m starting to see red more often.

I don’t know why.

 

 

You’re coming everyday now.
I have to clean the house more often
because of you and it’s very tiring.
Earlier today, the broken glass on the floor was looking straight at me.
I hope I didn’t forget to buy some bandaids.






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