Finish.

You're right.

As you hold me inches above

this shitty white plastic IKEA chair

against the wall that faces the driveway

we share with the neighbor.

In our tiny kitchen,

the one you somehow squeezed

a drop-leaf table into,

like stuffing civility

into a space it doesn’t belong.

You're absolutely right.

I meant to do that thing—

that terrible thing with my knee

while you were shoveling

forkfuls of food into my mouth

against my will.

As I choked it down

and my stomach lurched,

trying not to betray me.

You’re so right.

My eleven-year-old,

five-foot-four, ninety-eight pound self

has it out for you,

all six-foot-three, three-fifty of you.

I must have been itching

for the moment

I could drive my knee

into your goddamn balls

because what could possibly go wrong?

You're right.

I knew exactly what would happen.

That I'd end up here,

your hand around my throat,

spit hitting my face as you scream

inches from my eyes,

calling me a “little bitch”

while I try to push you off.

And you still,

still remind me

that I haven’t

finished

my fucking plate.