on this day.

you had his eyes.

xxix. YOU HAD HIS EYES.

my first act of disappearance was when i was five, hidden under a table with my knees pressed to my chest as my father's voice roared over my mother's distressed cries.

my second was when someone i considered a friend picked up my hands and told me that the lines in those palms meant nothing more than how ugly i was with crooked teeth that my mother told me were too strong for braces and the thick frames of my glasses that helped me see just how cruel the world could be.

at the age of ten, i watched raindrops race down my window and hit the ground just as fast as they had fell from the sky. the loud clap of thunder made the tree's full branches move with rage, all reminding me too much of my father.

it was then without hesitation that i realized I was a glass barely full with stained fingerprints and a foggy stamped lip print. i was the split between once two lovers, the borderline between hatred and passion.

the only time i ever felt completely full was the second between locking eyes with you and your mouth moving to the syllables of my name. i was too blind to notice that i was looking for my father who convinced me that anger meant safety and love and kindness that when your voice grew and the house shook as vigorously as if lightning had struck us, i saw his reflection in your eyes.

you carved me out that night with your two fingers after cornering me in the kitchen

and i haven't felt whole since.