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.