i looked back because of the hits
and there were no haikus
no strict syllable limitations
to the words he watches me hold back
just the brutality of me
full force. in my middle girl’s words
spoken so harshly in the witching hour
that’s how it was then.
poetry without borders, PWB
just doesn’t work the same as DWB
though the after-effect?
like bourbon to the virgin
you would know if you’d been there.
you’d know how painfully dangerous
that hot liquid could burn your soul.
and he would stop. the car.
that’s how bad.
because you reading this?
and all the rest of the non-stalking world?
if you had him at home?
you wouldn’t carry that demon.
it would be buried. six feet under.
and you’d walk the city streets
and set free your child and live
live
live
like every moment was your last.
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