The Kitchen Drawer

When I was in the eighth grade,

you made it quite clear

that I was not YOUR child

when you kicked my mother,

my brother and I

out of the house after an argument.

You broke the drawer off,

the one with knives,

in your fury.

I thought you were going to kill her

right in front of me.

You pinned her to the wall

and spat on her face

as you belittled her

and screamed at her

for some stupid little reason.

You told her to take HER kids

and get out.

I wasn’t even allowed

to get my shoes. Or a coat.

We sat in the car

in the driveway

to a house where I grew up

and cried. And cried.

We did not know where to go.

I told my mother to divorce you.

I told we could move in with grandma.

I told her we could come to get our things

once he was at work tomorrow.

She didn’t listen.

I wish she had

because now I am just as damaged.

You welcomed us back

and acted as though nothing was wrong;

that nothing had happened.

You pretended that everything

was the same as always.

But I know better because

the kitchen drawer doesn’t have a handle

 

 

 

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