Sometimes I think I see him still,
in his old white Benz,
blasting rap like he used to.
Sometimes I think he will find us again,
even though we’ve moved out
and changed our numbers.
Sometimes there’s a part of me
that wants to call him up and
tell him I know why he was so angry-
that I forgive him for everything,
but another part of me
cannot help but still be angry
Sometimes I wish I could go to Seattle
and see if there is something there
that breeds sadness in people like him.
I want to know why he ran back there
Sometimes I still see the hard lines of his face
in strangers I see on the street.
I have to fight the urge to run over to them
and ask why
everything reminds me of those four years
that his anger infiltrated our house,
why I still see him in my dreams:
the green bottle that was always in his hand,
the brown cloves always hanging from his mouth.
Sometimes I find myself hating
everything I know he loved.
I can never sit in a white Benz,
or watch the Superman movies,
or visit that one beach he always forced us to go to.
Sometimes I wish he had never existed,
or never been brought into my life,
but I know
I would not be the person
I am today