Somewhere, sometimes, I remember

the grief I carried at five—

watching my brother burn mashed potatoes,

then explain why as we scrubbed the pot.

No, it wasn’t because he lost

track of time or didn’t know how to cook.

Maybe he liked feeling

our father’s fist against his cheek.

Maybe I did too.

Back then, I traced the imprint

of a punch like a love note.

Now, I say cruel things

and walk like I’m searching for trouble.

When someone hits me, I know

that it is exactly what I wanted.