growing up

I watch the TV light flash upon the old paintings on the wall; the room is so dark I can barely see them. I look into every detail on the canvas that was painted for me on my eighth birthday, I see white streaks in the unicorn's hair I never noticed before. I think of how much my dad loves the one painting I made years ago. I'm quiet, the sound fades from my mind. He holds me tighter, but I can only focus on the taste of semen on my lips. I use nicotine to distract my tongue. We don't speak, only in whispers of "I love you" every time I look up at him. I look down at the glitter and jewelry on the dirty carpet. I remember what it was like when I was a little girl, summers consisting of lemonade stands and costume jewelry, but this time with a cigarette between my fingers.