Military Brat

You'll never get used to the adventure, to your
mother belting karaoke
laden with curses and innuendos
next to an empty six-pack,
your father laughing along and
eyeing her backside
while you and your brother slink
into opposite corners of the living room.

You'll never get used to
the void of rage that will appear
in your father's eyes when you
learn how to speak.
You'll say the wrong thing again;
you won't be able to stop yourself.
He'll say you're provoking him on purpose,
and you'll start to believe that you are.
He'll expect again that if he roars loud as a lion,
he'll silence your tabby house-cat meow.

He won't.
It's encoded in your blood, your neurons, your
feet. They weren't built for running, like your brother's.
They were built for planting, strong and sturdy,
to hold your body and head
upright in the darkest of hours.
Your father will see only the nose
on your upturned head
as it hits the kitchen wall.

In a Berlin elevator, your friend's brother
will grab at your ass and
for years you won't consider that
it wasn't an accident.

At thirteen, your parents will walk you
through Amsterdam's Red Light District
and you'll watch through wrought iron windows
women in baby pink lingerie
contorting themselves into impossible shapes,
advertising their curves and bosoms.
Later that day, your parents will offer you a beer.
You'll say no and take a big bite of
a delectable crepe with marshmallow fluff
and their eyes will meet each others' in disgust.

At fourteen, heroes on the sidewalk
with rifles and camouflage uniforms
will call you a whore
and you'll learn it's not just home,
but the whole world that's not safe.

At fifteen you'll ruin Thanksgiving
with declarations that
you can't wait to leave.
At eighteen they'll force you to stay.

In a Paris hotel room, you'll listen to your parents
having sex in the bed next to you.
In the morning over continental breakfast,
they'll tell you how
lucky you are to be there.

You'll tell them again
you don't want to ride the roller coaster.
They'll just laugh.
They'll lie to you and tell you
it doesn't go upside down.

Eventually, you'll begin to crave
intensity instead of warmth.
You'll seek out men
who make your heart flutter and
your stomach churn like the
first drop of the coaster
instead of women
whose softness calms your ever-racing mind.
You'll think a few drafted men
might keep you safe, but
even the kind ones won't.
You'll confuse disgust with passion and
put on baby pink lingerie and
trust fall into their arms,
hoping this time they might catch you.
Even when you know they won't,
you'll fall anyway, on purpose,
so when your head hits the wall behind you,
you'll feel some semblance of home.