eating is a strange subject. because i don't know if i am trying to fill up a hole or bury something inside myself

mother when i was 5 years old my mother slapped me across the face i fell to the rug and my eyes stayed dry. when i was 7 years old my mother hit me over the back with a leather belt the buckle bruised my spine. when i was 11 years old my mother hit me with the back of her hand an expensive new ring cracked against my nose and left a dark mark for several days when i was 14 years old my father hit my mother with the ball of his fist she fell to the rug and her eyes stayed dry.

i like his laugh

i love her. i love her hair in the sunlight and the way she laughs when she's nervous. or the way her hand shakes violently as she writes and the tears i saw on her face those two nights. and the way she held me, and we cried together. i miss the way things were before she found herself. i miss how she cared for me and she would hold my hand and put her arms around my shoulders and tell me things were alright. and now she does that with someone else, but it means so much more. and i am a side conversation. i am no longer what i once was to her. and when i saw her dancing there, in the flashing lights and the chaos of sexual pleasure and the rhythmm of the music, i saw the real her. i saw who she was and i saw her reach to push back the hair from her face her lashes shielding her eyes and i see her and it scares me because she is not the girl i know