• The only thing that stays constant are my dull brown eyes, the color of mud.

    Watching you.

    That's right, I'm watching you
    right
    now. And I'm telling you this
    as I watch you through the rain-speckled window,
    while you sit besides a monster,
    twirling a stick with your paint-chipped nails.

    You treat it as if it were alive, but
    your eyes are closed;
    and you couldn't care
    less.

    You have sad eyes. Like a kaleidoscope,
    whirling and spinning in the madness of things,
    glittering with emotions I don't
    understand anymore. Do you even
    remember what
    I look like? Or would you rather let the rest
    of Dad die with me?
    Look again now.
    Deeper. But only if
    you can dare to.

    Are you confused? Too bad,
    learn to deal with it like I have.
    Suppress it, hide it, bury it shallow
    Ready to release its bitter infection upon the world.
    Or are you afraid to bury your own daughter?
    Again.

    I am not actually in this house at all.
    You don't know that I'm
    floating
    twenty feet above our backyard,
    watching this
    "display" of misplaced affection,
    with eyes of the grey leafed tree. Or
    were they brown? Or
    do you even remember who
    I was?

    "Don't scream or she'll know this pain as well."
    His voice whispers roughly in my ear,
    grating and harsh as one hand wrap around my neck,
    and the other drifts
    below.
    Tomorrow I will be in a dumpster,
    instead of trudging down the stairs,
    coming down to eat breakfast and call
    a man-- no, a beast-- who is not my father
    "Sir", one of the last words I will ever be forced
    to say.

    How could you think that I could stand
    my ground against this thing that will
    take me and break me into
    nothing again,
    until I have no idea who I am anymore?

    My spirit is stuck in a hurricane now,
    battered and tattered and torn all around,
    the rain pelting me with icy
    daggers, like what I saw
    when you bothered to even
    glance
    at my beaten-down form.

    Did you still even care in the end? Or
    was I too much like
    him to matter?

    The sad thing is, I already know
    the answer
    to this question. For what kind of a mother
    choses her lover over her own,
    flesh-and-blood,
    loving, forgiving, forever enduring
    child?

    Apparently,
    you do.