To Father

We sit, it is warm and still,

and you fold your hands,

as if praying--useless--or thoughtful.

With my new eyes it was

obviously a fist, doubled.

For what comes out of your mouth

is not gracious or mindful,

but a harsh grating, grinding.

I hear the echo still,

it reverberates in my skull.

Alone we sit, eyes untouching,

and the air is so still, and yet

those noises, like razors shredding.

Stuck in me, fragments of hate,

without understanding or love.

Whittling me down, sharpening me--

though I was already serrated--

until I cut anything that came near.

And here I always thought I was worthless,

subhuman, undeserving of what could've been.

I can't remember how it ended now,

but I do remember the tears later,

wet with salt, sometimes red.

Those words are still in my head,

along with all the other things you've said.

Author's Note

:(