2. thread

i go back to when
i was four and my
feet finally moved,
and my mouth,
it finally spoke,
all my thoughts
could now come out,
and they became aware
of what was around them,
now conscious that the
people in my house
had created me,
but i wondered if they’d
loved me in the way
they lusted for each other
on that night.

i still don’t know why
dad hated me,
but the only time
he seemed to care
was when he’d take me
to throw the football around,
as if i had even a fleeting
interest in it,
more bored by the moment,
pulled me in by my arm,
the grip so tight, i thought
he’d rip it from the socket,
and he threw me down
on the couch,
his scream boomed so loud,
it woke the houses
around the corner from us.

mom ran down right
as dad would slap me,
my guardian angel,
she stood and absorbed
his blows as i laid and cried,
saw the look in his eyes,
not a moment of regret,
until hours later when
he would apologize
just so they could
fuck the hate away,
just a ruse to jump
back in her pants,
make her weak and have her
scream for some more.

hung by a thread.