A KILLER’S DAUGHTER

Dad, what is it like to be a killer?
Let me tell you what it’s like to be your daughter.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
Depriving your own wife
of her own life.
Depriving your own children
of their mother’s love.
Depriving the world of a dazzling light.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
It took Him seven days to create the world,
and you, one, to destroy your children’s.
Your ungodly powers brought your offspring
to their knees, forced to burry their own heart.
A red rose and a handful of dirt as a goodbye.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
Your children wear sadness like stains in a table cloth.
Stains in the form of lost childhoods.
Stains in the form of unsent letters to heaven.
Disguised stains only detectible to those
keen eyes able to decipher them.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a killer,
but this is what being your daughter is like.
I love you, dad.
And I mean it.