Finish.

You're right;

as you hold me inches above this 

shitty white plastic IKEA chair 

against the wall that faces the driveway

that we share with our neighbor

in our tiny little kitchen

that you've somehow squeezed a dropleaf table into.

You're absolutely right;

I totally meant to do that thing,

that terrible thing with my knee

as you were shovelling the 

forkfuls of food into my mouth

against my will

as I choked it down in disgust

and my stomach protested,

about to burst.

You're so right;

my eleven-year old

five foot four inch

ninety eight pound self

just has it out for you

and your six foot three

three hundred and fifty pound self

and I just couldn't wait for the opportunity

to knee you in the sack,

right where it hurts between the legs

because what could possibly go wrong?

You're right;

I knew exactly what would happen

and that this is where I'd end up

with your hand around my throat

and your spit hitting my face

as you're screaming inches away from my eyes

and I'm trying to push you away

as you call me a "little bitch"

and remind me that I still have to

finish my fucking plate.