Big smacks from
my childhood…

Still carry nightmares of Dad’s
anger issue.

Leaves me questioning why
hatred was such a standard
quandary to carry around.

No one heard the begs
for bleeding
to
stop…

Praying for my walk around the house

on feared, adolescent
eggshells—would not
lead to promised pain.

Agony
of a backhand…

Or the scrape from a belt buckle.

The silver chair now lies
dormant in an emotionally
imploded cellar.

A piece of furniture where
the chamber of horrors was
enacted…

Slaps, punches, insults
from a drunken father.

Life lessons accumulated…

You wear the nights of
Papa’s Waltzes well…

Don’t you son?