The first time you hit me, I must have been four. A hand, a flash, a reckoning. My mouth a blaze of touch.
The time you threw the box of Legos at my head. The hardwood dotted with blood. “Have you ever made a scene,” you said, filling in a Thomas Kinkade house, “and then put yourself inside it? Have you ever watched yourself from behind, going further and deeper into that landscape, away from you?”