My golden Taboo angel

was modern

and lovely

against the firmly pressed statue of myself.

Their were crowds of agony

and lines of starving faces

all built up against the battle hardened

face

of a little girl

crying

because her father wouldn't love her.

A cancer grew deep within him

with vines of golden screams and withdrawn nights of bruises.

I learned to be silent

my thoughts,

my body,

my mind

I became a golden taboo angel

slowly dying

from my long hair

and fake smile

that was given to his rich relatives at Christmas.

Where was God then?

when I was restrained in a suburban cage.

When I was afraid to write it down

afraid to say it.

It was to ugly

to vile

to be put on paper,

my hands to shaky to reveal it.

I was still a child

clutching to my mother's arms

when I leaned to negotiate

peace

between the two of us.

My father

has always been a shell of a man

who after an argument

denied that it ever happened.

After he shouted:

"Bitch...Just like your mother"

"Spoiled brat."

Is that what I was?

A piece within myself

unready to brake free.

Now,

as your old body withers,

droops,

dies,

you're to weak to raise a hand to me

or my writings

my words are truth

don't deny that

even though you've taught yourself to forget them.