He beat me up again,
the other night.
It’s not the first,
It’s not the last.
Never with his fists,
or an inanimate object.
Every time we meet, it’s the same thing.
no personal space,
no words of kindness.
blasphemy
lies
discreditation
I would be better if I were illegitimate.
you’ll learn one day, he says.
His words stab my being,
my soul.
The feelings so harsh,
a rabid bite would be nicer.
Estranged for decades,
the pain was less.
Why did I meet him?
My mom was no angel,
but she was the best.
Better than him.
He never loved that which he spawned.
The only one left is his crutch of bad luck
copywritten
Michelle Poet
July 2, 2001