Father, you are the biting taste of whiskey,
glaring at me from the clear bottle in the corner.
You tear apart the room when I say your name,
the flames burn every corner and scorch every
memory. Until all that is left are bones.
Father, you are the fresh and salty tears
flowing freely down Momma’s hot cheeks
and around her red nose, which coats her upper lip
in mucus. Used tissues tossed in the wastebasket
are spilling over the top within minutes.
Father, you are the wafting smoke from the cigarette
perched between your greasy lips and invading
every single pure ounce of oxygen until my eyes
are rimmed with red and my lungs don't work
properly anymore. You gave me life, you give me death.
Father, you are the angry and pounding heart
in my brother’s chest. Rage pumps adrenaline
through your veins to every limb that lashes out
and every word that spits deceiving lies.
You are the purple bruises painting his skin.
Father, you are the gas in my car as I drive away.