Daddy's Red Paint

Daddy’s Red Paint

Daddy wanted a son to teach

about His red world

but got me instead.

Still, the lessons came;

just harder,

with the stink of disappointment

and

Slap

the sound His of frustration.



I learned not to cry

at the age of five.

Tears were weakness

I was told.



Slap

“Strength is counted in breaths,”

He tells me by hand,

the one with the gold ring.

“Breathe

through

the pain.”

So, I play at not being weak.

But I still don’t understand;

You can’t with dry eyes.

He always did say,

“Weakness is tears given,

Not blood taken.”



Slap

Red,

blood

is the strength of pain.

Of backwards homes and

backwards palms.

Of loose teeth and

painted sunsets on my cheek

that sink to shadows.

That I understand.







I used to dance to the mantra’s He sang.

It was a strange hollow dance.

It wasn’t me.

I tried.

But some get lost,

and I lost.

Slap



I wasn’t

what he made me.