You can hear the way your mother’s voice sounds when she says your name,
smooth as butter when it hits your skin.
You can hear the way your father’s footsteps climb,
each of his 16 steps heavy on the stair case.

And when the shadows leak their menacing hands through the windows,
You can hear the sun screaming in protest,
begging you not to betray him.

Watch carefully and you can see the doves outside frantic,
flapping their wings in time with your heart
to rid themselves of your guilt weighing down their feathers.

As you spit your sins off of your conscience,
Watch them dissolve into the walls,
soaking them a deep red.
Tumbling out of your mouth only to surround you. ?
Now feel the air filling your lungs,
languid in the execution,
each inhalation suffocating you.

Walk barefoot on the floor to feel the indentations,
from the nights you’ve spent pacing,
desperately trying to remember the butter smooth sound,
of your mother’s voice.