The times that you rip
that skinny red
tank top
off my wretched arms

and throw it
in the space where
my memory
lapses
at the most convenient
of times,
is when I am most

concerned about my Father
reading this,
and crying
on the train
again
and again

Until I have to call him
and say
I love you
I
love you
like I am comforting
child
and go on
pretending like the blood
on the kitchen
floor
was not my own

as I sponge it
over
and over

until the red stain
reminds me of
when you drink
too much
and make yourself
sick
As that blotchy
redness
That warm liquid
rushes through
your cheeks
And bursts

Only to drip
downwards
onto
the ground
the grave
the floor
and finally
sink

So go on,
laugh
until your chest
begins to tighten
and hurt
as you pick
at your skin
And count
all your blessings
on those
crooked fingers