I’ve seen your dad drunk. Somehow he’s younger
but looks much older than me. “He guesses,”
you shrug when I pick you up. A daughter
mad for pain. You say you won’t but bruises
and welts under your dress make different claims.
You have men that you call sugar daddies
and you have me who has no time for games,
just pain. We park near the swamp. Willow trees
make the best switches. You’ll come home and pout
tonight with muddy knees, with my cum caked
to your cheeks, with seven new stripes hidden
under your dress. You’ll find your dad passed out.
That’s broke. You’re not like him when your soul ached
to be drunk with pain, to be loved, broken.