I’m only 10
And her head rests in my lap
She cries
And I won’t realise until much later
That what glows in my chest
and creeps up my throat
shallowing my infant breaths
Is anger,
The type that numbs you
I don’t think of her hands
leaving red prints on my face and brother
Because I think I might choke to death on all the words I’ll never say to her
I taught myself I was annoyed, not angry
And definitely not rightfully so,
Much easier to accept I am difficult to please
Than to expect more
From it all