I looked in mirror,
Eleven o’clock, summertime
Five years old,
I pitied my own sad eyes.
I was wearing Father’s long shirt,
Hung on me like a dress,
Space between toes, bleeding.
Mom and Father fighting in kitchen,
Fighting over me.
Father says I need to be a man,
Mom calls him a drunk fuck.
“He’s only little. He’s only little.”
Mom puts me to bed.
Toes wrapped in bandage and cotton balls.
“He’ll be leaving tomorrow, baby,” said Mom.
She stroked my hair,
She kissed my pouting lips.
“I love you.”