A father doesn't have eyes

I thought we spoke the same language.

I thought

we wore the same eyes, but

a father doesn't have eyes.

There has never been anything for him to look at

and language is too quiet

to cut across the cacophony of

unbearably white walls.

Not my childish drawings

under the paint. Not my sickness

staining the corner silently.

Not my questions echoing

off the deafening white.

I thought

white was a canvas; ripe for ideas

to take shape. A clean base

for reds, for yellows and blues;

the multitude of hues that flourish

when allowed to speak. My brush is always

reaching out, but these hands cannot touch

the sun, cannot own the sky. Not when

I fail to color myself inside the lines.

I thought

I was the wound and to heal

I had to disappear. The doctor told me:

heart palpitations,

sweaty palms,

muscle spasms

and regurgitated feelings; these things

will kill a person. But a doctor

doesn't have ears. Not my cries

that he would hear. Not my hate hiding

inside a father-shaped hole. Not when

you took my voice

and told me:

Only the guilty are silent.

The white is deafening.

And blinding.

And I thought

we wore the same eyes, but

the guilty one doesn't have eyes.

There has never been anything for it to look at

but itself.