My father is a generous man.
Generous with his money,
And generous with his criticism.

My mother is compassionate, yet ignorant
Almost childlike,
And puts up with my father’s put-downs.

Over the years I have witnessed her tolerate the abuse
I try my hardest to just stand back
I know getting involved solves nothing at all.

I’ve learned that stirring the *** doesn’t always stop the overflowing.
Sometimes it’s the heat that needs to be turned down,
And adding my voice is like turning the stove on high.

Speaking of *** and water analogies
I can’t be true that a watched *** never boils
Because countless times I have seen my father mercilessly spout malicious things to her as if there wasn’t even a fly in the room.
Either he is unaware of his behavior
Or he is confident no one would dare to question his authority.

I hope for the sake of my mother, it isn’t the latter.

I don’t stand back out of fear
I’ve gone head to head with my father enough times to have a concussion.
In that regard, my father is fair
Lending me the equal share
To be his victim
Dodging judgmental and figurative swings.
Usually I am very good at defending myself
But even the best get blindsided
Even boxers get time out’s
A referee to call the cheap shots
And a doctor to stitch up the cuts

You get in the ring with my father
You go in alone
No sponsors, you’re solo.

I’ve never submitted into submission
Or developed passive aggression
Unlike my mom.

My dad and I
Never quit the fight,

I can admit I am no angel.
I’ve said some nasty things
Behave and say things driven by inner pain.
But unlike my father, I feel a great deal of remorse
Barely an hour later I’m beside myself with tears

Asking him to please forgive me
As if I’m confessing my sins to a priest
Almighty Father, please forgive me.
but it takes more than few Hail Mary’s and favors Until I’m worthy in his eyes again.

Over the years, my father has developed skills at the coyly hiding snarky comments
Able to say something insulting in public
And not even an eyebrow would be raised at his statement.
Strangers would conclude his behavior to be plain playful sarcastic banter.

Hah! Fooled you didn’t he?

And I would like to ask those observers and strangers,
Audience of any kind
Do you consider fire to be playful?
They might not understand,
Look at me confused and baffled
I would continue to explain
“A small fire of course,
Only a few burns here and there”
Speckled all across your skin
Looking like ripples in the ocean
“And a few just deep enough for a skin graph, but don’t worry, the skin might come back.”
For the skin that is permanently gone
Extra skin will be extracted from your backside
Replacing that ugly nose that stuck its business in the wrong place.

But what I wish, is to tell them this,
“Now when people see you
They can be reminded
Of the *** Face you really are.”

You have no right to tell a person whether their burn is justifiable to hurt or not.
I would show them the figurative burns on my arms, legs, cheek, back, and neck
From the literal words my father slapped.

And each burn hurt differently.
Some just a little
And some that hurt so bad, just looking at the scar, I can feel my skin begin to sizzle.
I would ask them to stand in as my double, my dummy really
Because that’s what they symbolize
A dumb somebody.

And I would ask them to take a few hits
While I sit back and observe
Saying not to complain, that it doesn’t really hurt.
The angry part of me wants to never come back
Keep you stranded there.
In the pit of my father’s fire
Burning in hell until relief can come
Or at least someone
With enough common sense and decency
To put out the fire they see.
But people never come, You’re stuck their for eternity.

Sometimes I wish I could have a break
Or someone to toss me a hose
Or a bucket filled with water
But people act like we live in a desert
Regulating help like water in a drought.
Asking them for a hand is like asking them to dump all their water into the dry cracked ground.

People hesitate to even give a smile
Something free.
Don’t ask people to spare you a nickel
I will spare you the answer they will give you:
No.
And that is if you’re lucky
People don’t even look at people anymore.
Shame, pride, nervous, shy
Who knows why.
But remember a time
When people look each other eye to eye

Shook hands for an agreement,
And actually kept it.
Now we need to sign contracts
For the most nonsensical things
Contracts for our contracts
Lawyers for our lawyers

People always covering their ***
From people who steal, and don’t know how ask.
No wonder we don’t look each other in the eye
Afraid to be hurt after so many lies.
We don’t have trust.
We don’t feel safe.

I know how that feels to be scared and unsafe.
Even this place
My home, meant to be a sanctuary
Not a factory where I am worked
Not a laboratory where I am analyzed.
Sometimes when I look through my window blinds
It reminds me of a prison
A room I am trapped inside.

So don’t patronize
My fear and my pain
My feelings are good enough as they stand
No matter where you might stand.
Each burn had their own type of hurt

Who are you decide that degree?
Especially when the burn
Happens to me.
Some still might disagree
Or refuse to see
The point I am trying to make.
But if you understand what I’m trying to say
If you ever see someone on fire
Don’t look away or stand to judge
Throw them hose or a water filled bucket.