My fist in your mouth.

My bathtub
has this stupid leak.
And I am getting tired of
my neighbour's
shower.
My father
walks home drunk.
Like a pig
he can't tilt his head
up
to relate
to the lonely sky
holding onto
those self absorbed stars.
I've spent so many nights
interpreting their
moods, and music,
and they still
tell me nothing.
I get home earlier
every night.
Wait for him
to stomp through
3 AM doors.
Stress can run red
over my stomach and
across my back
leaving marks for days.
My hands steal
money and beer
from his
den.
My hands become
fists
filled with
fingered force.
I forget how
to understand
others
judging me
and my fists.
Men have
underestimated
my sense of the
word fist.
I forget words
temporarily
like
forgiveness,
because I
give it
all
the
time,
and people still think I am angry.