Blood runs down my swollen lip,
My wrist is bruised beneath his grip;
Sweat is matting down my hair,
And soon I'm just too numb to care.
I try in vain to stay his hands,
After every violent blow he lands;
And while the stars dance over-head,
I hope that I will end up dead.
He presses me hard into the floor,
And when I scream he presses more;
I try to scream but just get silence,
I wish that he would stop the violence.
Tears and sweat and blood combine,
And blackened eyes begin to shine;
He smiles at his job well done,
And throws another punch for fun.
He says it's just to make me tough,
But I say I've really had enough;
And after rising from the floor,
I limp and hobble out the door.
© Copyright 2016 Phoebe Kishbaugh. All rights reserved.
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