That morning of the 14th, my daddy woke me up.
It was a rushed “Good Morning,”
Because he was going to be late to work.
He made sure I was dressed, with backpack in hand,
And stumbled me to the bus stop.
The bus was late, that Friday morning.
I wished it would hurry,
Daddy is getting angry.
When the bus rolled down the street,
Daddy kissed me hurriedly on the cheek.
I climbed aboard and watched him drive away,
A growing tightness in my chest.
I looked down, red blossoming in my small chest,
And cried.
The pain was nothing like falling from my bike,
Or getting pricked by scissors.
It was like watching my daddy drive away,
Or seeing him cry.
It was like watching him come home without me,
Or seeing him lock my door.
It was like watching him curse himself,
For that rushed “Good Morning.”