SHOTgun

he sends me to my room,
like saying,
“think about what you’ve done.”
but he’s the one who needs
to open up his eyes.
i despise the man i call my
father,
and the choices that he’s made.
a mistake is not a mistake
when you choose to do it
again
and again and -
he shot me with a bottle
it fits right in his pocket.
ONE! TWO! THREE!
after that i stopped counting.
stopped counting on him
and who he should be.
stopped waiting on a promise,
on a thought,
stopped waiting on hope.
hope jumped out the window first,
maybe i should follow.