It Hurts To Watch My Father Split In Two Each Night.

It hurts to watch my father split in two each night.

Right down the middle of his face, one half hops to bed and the other to the garage to yell.

The sleeping half is kind, and has never touched a drop of alcohol, and makes big pancake breakfasts on Sunday mornings.

The waking half is cruel, and has fascist memorabilia on his walls, and drills screws in pictures of the opposition to hang.

I can only love half of him, but I cannot stop even that. His image bleeds in my mind, I cannot grapple with the fact that they are the same man after all—that Nazi’s have daughters, too.

More Posts from Jean-elle-writing and Others

5 months ago

Is the joy of wearing anyone’s face, dawning any voice on command worth more to you than possessing your own? Then by all means act your life away. Express yourself in characters, distilled emotions and memories of yours, collect awards, applause, whatever it is you think will fix you, make you happy. And when the curtain is called and the limelight dims and you sit with your viewer of one and struggle to communicate to other people in real life without the hug of a facade, I want you to remember that you wanted this. You wanted to be shucked and hollowed out to be filled with the adoration of millions. Don’t step down now. There’s nothing worth returning to anyway.

-Diary of an actress


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7 months ago

I want to know peace for while, if that’s alright. If the world can spare it for someone like me.


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8 months ago

If nothing else, I will always have my misery. Like a child that does not grow old but cries and cries in her cradle, only silencing in my arms. She is mine, and I am hers.


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1 month ago

I’m like a child, the way my mind works. I want us to look at each other, but I keep covering my eyes.


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1 year ago

I reel back from the sunlight every time it caresses my cold skin, cooing in vein for me to love it back. Nothing can bring me to it. I have been burned before. I have been honest and I have been present and I have walked in the damnation of the daylight and I will not make that mistake again.

I will make it again. I will make it again. If only to see the sky, I will make the awful trek from hidden to known, again.


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6 months ago

Life is happening, life is happening all the time. I can’t seem to catch it in between my fingers, elusive as rays of light. I cannot keep it high in my lungs, it leaves me like a breath. I am a meager stone in a fast coursing river and I watch what erodes me away. Life is cold. Invigorating. I wish I could hold its hand and study its face before it escapes me again.


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8 months ago

Sirens often eat out of hatred, not love. So when the sailor girl asked the siren if she found her appetizing, she shook her head with a tight lipped grin. The human took it as rejection, her eyes falling to her hands and picking at the callouses she found unsightly, not understanding she had just shown her affection for her. That hiding one’s teeth was a gentle act of favor the merfolk used.

3 months ago

I belong to my animals as much as they belong to me. I am no owner, and they are no beasts.


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5 months ago

We could have heaven on earth, if there were no other people here but you and I. We would be shepards of animals, bearers of seeds. We would take the river home, and let it sweep us with its long cold body to our doorstep.


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5 months ago

If I have learned anything of those who are advanced and civilized, it is this:

New technology is praised even as it wrecks the earth and is manufactured by children’s hands,

Rich men can kill millions so long as they do it sitting in a board room in a suit and tie, but let a poor man kill one rich man and he is quick to die,

Advancements in medicine are available only to those who can afford them, all the brilliance in the world distilled behind a paywall,

In the heat of all their innovation and progress, they have forgotten empathy. And that renders their advancements useless and backward, their intelligence only lets them be more unique in their cruelty.


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jean-elle-writing - Jean Elle Writing
Jean Elle Writing

A collection of poems, writing, and stories

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