My father's wrath,
I've come to learn,
is a scared, tentative thing.

When it rears it's ugly head once more
against better judgement
biting and snapping and prowling
with bared teeth and teary eyes
like a bad dog
it has it's tail tucked between it's legs
(I guess that's where I get it from).

Never before
do I fear so fiercely
than under my father's hand.
I raise my arms to shield from a strike
that will never come;
I shrink from his booming voice like a mutt to thunder;
I cower under sheets like I'm a kid again,
biting back tears because I know if he hears
it'll break his heart-
and what greater sin is there?

My heart is a fragile thing.
A twitching, bleeding bird held in my father's maw
because that's all either of us has ever known.
Roots tied and tangled
until I cannot discern myself from Him,
choking on the guilt he feeds me.
So
when I shuck my skin from my bones
like worn and ill-fitting clothes,
he clings to the tatters
and mourns the woman I will not grow up to be;
mourning the body still growing before him
(And I, being tied to him at the heartstrings
mourn myself too).