Paper

Glowing white accepts me
my words

for whom we are
realizes

how far I’ve come

that it will take a lifetime
to overcome these memories
of crying, barely able to count

bleeding by......mother’s hand.

Rubbing tears
and hate
with blood
onto my tiny beaten face

I stare into the bottom
of pain
of the kitchen garbage can
through this shapeless blur

and there, staring back at me
my new-to-me white shirt
lies crumpled
and torn
streaked with red

On some level, my sympathy
allows the man to understand

but he will never.

The child remains
on the floor
with another nosebleed
because he didn’t wind

the vacuum cord up properly.


"Mother did it need to be so high?"