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.