Shaking in a kitchen corner,
munching on spaghetti,
pretending I'm invisible.
Mommy, don't let him see me.

It would make more sense if I were younger,
or if he beat me so.
He's never laid a hand against me,
but I still cry for him to go.

And not for him to know,
of the tears crawling down my cheeks.
My supper it tastes sour,
and the garbage it does reek.

But, I will not abandon my sanctuary,
until his voice is silence,
until the slamming of the door,
and the humming of the car motor in the distance.

So I sit and tremble of mangled thoughts,
not certain of my feelings;
the tears, the trembling, the burning inside,
what is the hurting's meaning?

And as the door shuts tightly,
and I stare enraged through my tears,
and think: Could this feeling for my father,
is for him to be my greatest fear?