At age five she watched her father wrap a belt around his once
strong arms, inject a needle in red veins that carried
blue military memories.
That needle was his first love and she wondered
where she stood on his list of love.
She wasn't vodka or mixed with powdery substance.
She was five years old sometimes demanding daddy's attention
in hopes that his vision would intensify in between smoke
filled rooms and war filled delusions,
that daddy would see her.
Dressed in a pink dress, frilly socks and white shoes.
Her small fragile hands and almond eyes reaching out to him.
At age ten she celebrated the art of escapism.
She dreamed of pink castles and coconut islands
while living in a high rise in the city.
Mommy and daddy separated and he came to visit sometimes.
Each time she noticed his body decaying.
Exposed bones through his shirt; blood clots on long thin legs.
Eventually they received the call saying he may not make it
through the night. She ran to see him.
There he was lying on his death bed whispering,
"I love you daughter. You are my chocolate doll.€
She was twenty five years old then and she wondered did he realize
that five year old chocolate dolls could feel,
could see and could remember everything.
She had cried enough.