I find myself
at sixteen
twirling daisies
between my scarlet
painted fingers

with my lips
matching, fearful
of smudging, of
taking a glass
of water

that you desperately
need. Your dehydrated
mind playing tricks
with the lights

you do not see
your father, belt
wrapped around
his hand

his pants slowly
caving in to
gravity

and so do you
collapsing to
the bed, sheets
already ruffled

you are oblivious
to his weight and
yet you know, deep
down

that there is nothing sweet
about sixteen