Red Tainted Snow

A poem

Skiing was my dad’s resolution to our disputes. Would it solve the heartbreak or deceit? The nights spent crying over an old picture that captured the “perfect” family. When you break a vase that holds flowers, super gluing it can only do so much before it starts leaking water. Despite my prejudice against him, blood is blood. What if the vase cracks and when you go to pick it up you cut yourself, blood is then shed. Red contrasts the whiteness of snow. Snow that my skis glide upon, every turn focusing more on the task in front of me. A skier falls, immediately both parents rush to her aid. Delicate flowers would never be able to survive in a mangled home, home, the place i’d rather be.

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