Quiet Tears

The rusty dirt color of your backhand approaches my newborn scab. The beating after-burn of your mark comes suddenly after the return of your “I'm Sorry” speech. I'm pretty sure your abuse beatings weren't in the lessons your mother would teach you. ... You were the one to bare my first child. You were the one to care for US. The two-letter word that now seems wild. That heavy callous hand of yours seems to put those dreams in the dust. Lust and perfection grew you into the monster you are today. The bruises on my face, the strings of the lace around my neck like a noose. You made sure the thick intertwined string wasn't loose, like the lies you told my friends and my mom and all those nights you told me to remain calm. As of now the healing remains like stains that will never let go of the aching pains. Midnight rides on the boxcar trains will be forever implanted in the hemispheres of my brain. Abuse … a broad underdeveloped secular excuse for men of little class and unworthy demeanor to stumble over women with no care for the hurt they bare in the broken hearts of crumbled dreams and muffled sounds of late night screams.