YOU

The night you stumbled upstairs
smelling of sweat and gin,
and mom confronted you — about me —
I hid behind my bedroom door
listening to your lies.

You,
with your gravel voice,
shouting at the walls
as if I  had wronged you.
As if I had any say.

Mom once told me
anger moves through blood like smoke,
it fills your lungs and suffocates you.

So here I am,
spitting you out
in every breath,
fighting to forget.

Still,
some nights I wake
with your fingers
penetrating my dreams,
your betrayal a knife
I still carry in my womb.

And I want to forgive,
I do.
But forgiveness is a door
with no handle, not from this side.
I have nothing left to say to you.

So I write.
I walk.
I speak in the voice
you took from me.

And that's the best I can do
to move past you
for now.