Dad’s Toolbox

I crept out into the morning light
still blue from the leftover dark.
The first birds were beginning to stir 
It must be nice to have no worries.
The trees rustled – talking
but not telling their secrets
Like teenage girls.
If I could crawl back into mother’s womb
I would.

The path is cold on my feet
they’re small, they still have time to grow.
Unlike my sadness
that is an adult
even though my shoulders are small.

The rustle of claws upon hay
I disturbed the pets from their 
soft, sweet, sleep.
I feel like I’ve let them down
but it’s hard being my parent 
as well as theirs.

Dad’s toolbox
On the shelf up high.
Clambering awkwardly onto
The chest freezer
so that I can reach my gold.

She’s a good girl
They only say that because I’m quiet.
They don’t understand the layers, distortions 
and rituals inside.

I take what I’m looking for
Amongst rusty nails 
the sandpaper – it smells of rotten water
but still has enough roughness to work.

Paper upon skin
skin upon paper
the smell of burning peaches
the smell of low self esteem 
I feel the scar for thickness
blood on the end of my little fingers

Placing the sandpaper back
I leave the operating room
and enter the house, and get into bed
before anyone wakes.

by Emma Dawson

Emma Dawson has written for pleasure and processing emotions for as long as she can remember – she used to invent characters and stories from about the age of five. It’s only recently she’s thought about submitting her work. She is currently unpublished.

photo credit: FWStudio