Little girl, I know your dad spits homophobia off his tongue like a wildfire burning and when he found your love letter with her name signed across it he cried and you cried and he told you he didn’t love you anymore, that God couldn’t love you anymore.
But you don’t understand why you feel more comfortable showering in the light shinning through the stain glass window in gods house than you feel singing next to your parents on Sunday mornings.
Category: poetry
MY ANGEL CHILD, Poetry by Cleo Patra
Touching my stomach with trembling butterfly fingers
Knowing I’d never feel you growing in me
Earthquake tremors ripped my tortured heart to pieces
My eyes swam in my blue-stormy tears
WILDsound Festival 