We thought he was getting better.
He is getting worse.
There is something wrong with him.
I locked him and me in a room because
he was so violent, dangerous.
He screamed primitive screams at me.
Threw objects and punched the walls.
Pushed me and drew back as if to punch me
fist clenched, jaw clenched, foreign eyes.
He spat and cursed.
He cried in panic and anger and pain.
And I sat against the door
and tried to pretend
it was not my dad doing this.
And he stopped,
walked to me,
crouched next to me,
kissed my head,
said he was sorry,
stood up,
and screamed curses at the walls,
while I cried.
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