you dyed your hair black and pierced your lip
because you knew it would disgust your dad,
(if he weren't already dead.)
but kid, it will never go away. it's
just not that simple, and you know it, because -

the cold tile of the bathroom floor is
still pressed against your tearstained cheek
in every single nightmare. and
the pattern of his favorite belt buckle
is permanently branded just below the surface of your skin,
where no one but you can see it. and you can
taste the blood from the tooth he knocked out; can
feel the ache in the ribs he broke.

god, you weren't the one who
killed him, but sometimes you wish you were.
and you wonder, from time to time -
if he hadn't blown his own brains out,
would you have done it for him?


to clarify: this is fictional, folks. at least - it's not part of my story. i dunno, maybe it's part of yours.