Friday, February 5, 2010

car accident

That day you picked me up from school,

I knew you were mad. You flicked

the turn signal so hard that I cringed in its pain.

Your stop sign red hair warns,

you’re always mad, aren’t you?

That day you picked me up, you asked.

You said, "sometimes I feel

SOMETIMES…I feel like you

Sometimes…I…" But you stopped and looked

at me, eyes like those marbles

that I used to collect. The ones dad bought me.

Cold and glass and easily lost. You said,

"sometimes I feel

like you love dad more than me--"

I hate the way you drive so much faster

when you’re mad and I am

actually afraid. So instead,

I become a liar.

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