I've come to the conclusion that
the scar on your left knuckle
and the string of bruises you wear on your wrist like a bracelet
is connected to the crush of your father's fist
against your mothers chin when he's drunk.
The map of your neighborhood
was already circled in red for all the places
you could possibly go to avoid
slurred phone calls in the middle of work
full of stuttering apologies.
You overheard your mother talking with your brother once
when you were eight. How do I get out? she asked.
I don’t know, he replied. How does anyone?
But there are over seventy shades of blue in the world,
and not a single one of them matches the sound of your fathers voice
when he murmurs I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.