Watching the clock fearing the sweep of the minute hand
as it drew closer to the hour.
Knowing it would be soon time for the man’s return,
an event feared all day.
The hope was he stopped off early and had a sip,
the anger boiled lower if he had.
The sound of those big tires rolling down the street,
even in middle age the sound produces a shudder.
The truck stopped with a quick jerk
in front of the house that wasn’t a home.
Scrambling to find a place to be unnoticed
before the door was thrown open.
Hearing my name called, I fight the urge to pee,
what has set off the man this time?
An unsatisfying job, a family only in name, the hurts of childhood,
each creating an internal boil.
The red eyes betray an uncooled rage tonight not settled by drink.
This is my life, though never able to adjust,
my role as a punching bag, is this my world?
The scars and bruises eventually heal, showing no outward mark,
but inside I scream for it to end.
Public smiles cover the private shame.
Where is God? I pray daily for the man’s death,
doesn’t He care about me.
Preacher says we each are in His loving hands,
I think he full of shit.
The pillowcase covered in tears again,
evil is planted in the heart of the child.
Dreams of violence keep sleep at a distance,
morning provides a new day for the cycle to continue.
