Above the ceilings. Surrounded by aging wood. Lay lockboxes. At the center. Of the homes of my family...

An invitation rescinded. A door closing. The blame shifted. Because I’m the villain in your tale. The showers in sunshine were . . .

A little girl grew up, hearing “A girl’s first love is her father,” But no one ever told her, that love comes in different forms.

I sit in the corner of a café, Silently holding on to the warmth of the coffee mug, Watching as others go on about their day.