-A Slightly Upsetting Poem-

You're such a great role model, Dad.
The way you thunder down the halls
Filled with alcohol
Reeking slightly of marijuana.
You're such a great role model, Dad.


You're such a great role model,
The way you spend all day in your room
Locking us out
So that you can sleep
Or watch TV
With glazed over eyes
Emerging only once in a while to hiss at me,
To call me names before retreating to your cave.
You're such a great role model, Dad


It's so great that you only work when you feel like it
Leaving no answer to questions like,
"How will we pay the bills?"
or
"How will we buy this?"
Mom refuses to tell me these things
But I know what's going on.
I'm not stupid.


It's so great, Dad,
That I used to run from your voice.
I still cringe when I hear it.
That's healthy.
It reminds me of days past
When a spill on a carpet or a messy room
Meant a new bruise or two.


Do you remember that day, my loving father,
When you went off for no reason at all?
I never hated you before then.
I don't know what set you off.
Probably something stupid, just like every other time.
But you chased me through the house.
You threw open doors I slammed
And the one door I locked
You decimated.
You destroyed the door to your own room in a fit of rage over something so insignificant.
And then you had me,
And me alone, because I had hid my sisters in the bathroom.
Those poor innocent girls who don't deserve these memories.
I hid them away from you.


I was young deer to your angry wolf,
And you let loose.
You kicked,
You punched,
You wounded me in ways both physically and emotionally that you'll never know.


You remember punching me in the face, don't you?
Your poor little girl?
I can still hear the cartilage in my nose cracking
As you shattered the tip.


I don't know how, but I escaped from your clutches,
And hurried to the kitchen to seize the phone.
But before any buttons could be pressed, you appeared before me, still enraged.
Still bloodthirsty.
And you threatened to kill me if I made the call.
That's not the worst part.
The worst part is I put down the phone
Because I knew you would.


But I ran.
I ran until I couldn't run anymore.
Out the front door
And away from you.


Tears and blood streaming down my swollen face, I ran.
I stopped and sat eventually.
I don't remember where I was, or how I got home.
Concussions bring about memory loss sometimes.
But I can remember one thing.
You finally earned my hate.


When I came home that night,
A confused kid stumbling through the door,
You tried to bribe me with early Christmas presents
(It was December, you see)
But I wanted nothing from you.
I retreated to my bathroom,
Cool water washing the stains from my face.


I looked at the new me.
She was swollen, bruised, not glorious.
But I loved her.


I remember, Dad, that there was only one more incident of violence towards me.
One last one, that February.
And after that you stopped.
Why did you stop?
That February, I learned to punch back.


Sunny days.
Rainy weather.
Swings on a playset.
I had a happy childhood.