I imagine my tiny body floating on the sea of bedding.
Your six foot plus frame looming over me.
The light from the bathroom casting you all in shadow, disfiguring your face.
I don’t remember a smell of alcohol or the scratching of an unshaven chin on my flesh.
I don’t remember words that were spoken or what I was wearing.
I don’t remember the length of your fingers or how cold they must have been.
I remember your hand tapping the couch and the moans coming from the TV.
I remember the window next to my mother’s bed and the shadows that didn’t see me.
I remember the shadows that never saw me.