When I was younger
My dad would drink a beer
Down two shots of straight vodka
And polish off the whiskey
Because that way he didn't have to think.
I tried to stay out of his way
I made myself as small as possible
But I couldn't disappear
So he waited on his enormous leather chair until I got home
And then he shoved me around
And threw a few punches
And kicked my shins
And like a little pussy, I cried
So he only hit me more.
Every night I say,
"Ryan, you mean nothing.
You say nothing.
You do nothing.
You are nothing."
Because that way I don't have to think.
That night, Bren enters the bus with a grin spread on his face
And his oak eyes bright
And his hand beating rapidly against his jeans.
I rise from the couch to piss
I'm empty
And he follows me.
When I see him perched outside the threshold through the mirror
Clouds gather
I turn around and place my frail hands on his chest
I haven't much strength, but I'm fueled by aggression
I throw him backwards
And spit on his stupid, nice shoes Spencer bought for him.
His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't cry.
That just proves I don't deserve him.
Like father, like son.