warning: turbulence ahead.
My palms are sweaty.
My dad, on the phone
"Hello, I'd like to cancel the reservations."
Me, at the table, staring at my fingers.
Your hands all over my body
"You're skin is so soft."
Mom, yelling at me to get in the car.
"You may be eighteen, but you're acting like a child."
Hysterical tears, locked in the back seat,
staring back at you, walking away.
You were supposed to protect me.
Interrogation. I say
Mom says "You're breaking my heart."
Every inch of me is broken.
I cannot stay.
The bell knocked against the door,
as you kiss me the last time.
"You're going to be okay."
The customers flow through the store.
My tears are ghosts.
And then, my father, holding me tight,
watching until I disappear behind security.
He points to his eye, his heart, then to me.
I hold up a peace sign.
I love you, too.