Tiptoed along the tile floor in the bathroom,
barely breathing as I tried not to wake you, 
tears leaking down my face almost as quickly 
as the drip from the rusty faucet in the sink.

It didn’t work.

You barreled down the hallway 
just to tell me I’d be prettier 
if I exfoliated once in awhile,
ignoring my shoulders 
trembling at the timbre of your voice,
the coarseness of the growl
rising from your core with the force
of a dragon robbed of a piece of gold
as you blinked and realized I was crying.

I kept the gold piece long after you were gone, 
for it reminds me, with its jagged edges 
that glisten even in the dark before dawn, 
that I survived the flames.