My father killed my mother in 1993. I was 10. Most of my work is inspired by my past. Enjoy.

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That's not how the story should have ended. 

Stabbed to death, all cold and scary.

No more fairytales, lego jails or home made clothes on bloody mary. (Our Barbie doll. Her wounds we tended)

We couldn't pretend it didn't matter,

Misplaced trust all crimson faces in afterworld misleading places.

Grief does many things to too many people. Mine gave me mistrust the only thing that was ever equal.

They shared the same lack of my faith as that in I, I could not face.

I was the killer and he was me. My rightful father so it seems. We shared the blood we shared the veins I wore the bit he held the reigns.

That's not how the story should have ended.

With memories of how she was left instead of dancing so affectionate.

We're left with soundless empty death.

That's why I smile for what's been kept. 

My story isn't over yet.

Tracie Rose Daily.

By Tracie Daily

From: United Kingdom

Website: http://www.tracierosedaily.home.blog

Instagram: @traciedaily

Twitter: @traciedaily