Papa

The box you kept me in is week and fragile

and I have broken it,

You haven't noticed all the times

when I tried to kill you or when

I threw stones at you with my mouth,

you are now flesh and bones

but I am waiting for you to be ash and dust.

Papa, papa your fat

German beard brushes against

my cheek when you give

me a kiss,

you tell me "doesn't it feel like a bliss.,"

it just makes me want to

die faster.

Every time I look into your eyes

my groan gets even loader,

du arsch, du arsch, du arsch,

half the slits on my wrists are

for you.

Your catholic soul makes

me want to kill you even more,

I close my eyes and count to four,

hoping you go way beyond

Singapore.

You don't know how much I lie,

I should be the one to make you die.