How she would look through him
to the past
or the way her eyes
molested his frame,
comparing him to his father.
A man he could and
would never be.
He hated how she smoked
the never ending chain of her cigarettes
leaving a lingering odor that clung to almost everything
And he hated it.
The times when she would rub her cheek against his own.
The feel of her tired, dry flesh like sandpaper against his
Or how she almost always found her way into his bed.
The nights when Jack Daniels had caressed her, leaving her wanting.
Not enough time spent cleaning the house
or checking on him
side by side they would lay.
Him, rigid and stiff
As her hands moved over his body
while she whispered his father’s name
That’s why he hated her.
But when she was done and his innocents
spent, she would cry.
A sound that
grabbed at his heart with gentle fingers
beckoning him to comply to the
plead for warmth
At times like this a small voice in head would
wonder if hating he was right at all.