Underneath

Underneath my shirt is is my skin
Under my skin is my heart
Under my heart are the words I never meant to say,
or atleast wish I hadn’t,
and the harsh, slurred words that danced out of my father’s mouth
and pierced the air in return,
which he probably never meant to say either,
but I’ll never know,
because I was never told “Sorry.”
Under that is a door slammed out of frustration,
an aggravated scream that sneaks its way around the cracks of the door frame
for the rest of the world to hear.
Under that are the awkward, silent days following, dragging on
for what seems like an eternity until you realize you need to talk,
because he’s the only one who can pass you the ketchup at the dinner table.
Under that are my mother’s pleads, begging me to end the tension,
and my refusal. “If he won’t talk, then neither will I.”
Under that is a swirl of emotions;
Anger.
Disgust.
Guilt.
Regret.
Under that is realizing I only have one father,
and he’s not so bad, even if he makes a mistake or two here and there.
Under that is love,
and an apology.
“I’m sorry.”