My handwriting looks exactly like his,
Down to the way I do my D’s.
Every time I write my name, I am reminded.
The letters laugh at me and sneer sweetly,
They call me names and raise their calloused hands;
Other touches are much too soft, and linger far too often.

D for ‘do you want some coke?’.
D for drunkard.
D for dad.

His rage lives inside me—
A thousand tiny splinters
That throb and ache.
They lie dormant, slowly festering,
Gnawing at my insides like a termite.
I fear that one day I will be nothing but a mosaic of wood.