Sometimes
the bloodiest battles
with the greatest number
of
casualties
are the ones
fought within
the confines
of our own
warring
souls.

She was a pretty little mess,
One two many drinks,
A silly teenage fool,
One that doesn't think.

They all called her a *****,
She wore a very short black dress
They said: "***** little ****!"
She thought: "but am I pretty yet?"

She danced against the wall
Until she caught an eye
She stumbled to the settee
Sat down on someones knee

They didn't talk for long,
No, they didn't speak at all;
Only breaths and gasps and whispers
The sound of a mistake

Of course, she had planned this all
And hoped that he might call
She blamed it on the drink
She said she didn't think

This happened many times,
Each night a new regret
And every morning she wondered
"Am I pretty yet?"

Take me out to the ballgame
Take me to be all I can
You can't find such a jolly group
Of secret malevolent madmen
So it's bombs, guns, tanks
For the home-team
If there's no one left, what a shame
Cause it's money, lives and victory
In the Old Ballgame

The first time I met you, I tasted blood in my mouth. You reeked of ***** and misogyny and bad intentions. You reeked of my mother’s rotting happiness.

Every time I saw you my skin turned to Braille, but that never gave you the right to try and read it. See, the small of my back was not your pocket, my chin was not your coffee cup and my shoulder was not a place for your crocodile tears. You don’t have to touch a person to know them.

When you realized I wasn’t a tween romance novel, you started to read my mom like she was self-help book. But I knew you were illiterate the day my mother’s makeup foundation couldn’t find the exact shade that went with black eye. The cut on her lip was just a new shade of lipstick and the bruises encircling her neck and wrists began to look like jewelry. She told me they cost more than any pearls she’s ever owned. And like Samson, my mother’s hair was cut short. But it was by her doing. What good was strength when you were the one pulling her around by it?

But the moment we found out that she was carrying life inside of her your hands had to find a new hobby. I suggested training your fingers on how to pack a bag but instead you chose how to learn to pick up bigger bottles. It was a relief to see my mothers stomach swell rather than her face but 9 months is nothing compared to 18 years.

The only solace I find in you being in my brother’s life is that I won’t have to teach him how to hate you, he’ll already know. And I’m counting down the days until the ocean in his veins form a category 5 hurricane. I’m counting down the days until he destroys you.