I want to be angry.
I want my mother to feel my anger.
I want to open my body like a book of horrors
and aim every dagger at her heart.
I want her to feel the same red hot blood
dripping out of a thousand wounds.
The same wounds I had.
I want her to cower
under the same unrelenting power of my voice
that I had once cowered under.

I want to be angry at my father.
I want his chest to feel
the crushing weight of fear,
dry mouth and beating heart,
anticipating bruises on his back.
The same bruises I once felt.
I want him to feel
the same empty worthlessness,
the same endless despair
that he made me feel.

I want their eyes to fill
with burning unshed tears
as they swallow the boulders in their throats
and choke back their screams.
I want to rip apart all my pain into pieces
and shower them
with all the darkness
that they showered me in.

But it's a Saturday morning,
and the sun is shining.
I smell Dad's pancakes,
and Mother is singing. 

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