taking a substantial bite from the already petite slice,
he smiles and shoves the remainder of the fruit in my face.
“it tastes just like you; innocent and oh-so delicious.”

my skin crawls on every level imaginable submerged in flesh.
turning around as to hide my contorted expression, i just nod.
i absolutely hate him, but they claim he took care of me as a child.

“you don’t have to like him; he just needs acknowledgment.”

he grips my hands and spins me around. just like he used to.
but harder. much harder. i used to feel terror; it’s routine now.
stare at the concrete as spit projects on my face - internal meditation.

they never believe me when i bring it up. i get it, there’s no proof.
these marks around my throat – allergies from the weather.
you’re right, these bruises, they’re from rough housing. tough love.

literally.

he says the easiest way to discipline someone was reinforcing punishment.
you should see the strength he uses to test for ripeness at the market.
now imagine this: the watermelon is your skull, and his fists are knives.

i just avoid eye contact and clench my abdomen; the knees are coming.
“i’m going to spread you open today, boy; like a ******* ****** watermelon”
he loves seeing the liquid run down my chin – perfectly young and seedless.

and i react just how he likes it:

like his ******* watermelon.