The house creaks, for it is aged,
And we are leaving it to turn another page.
But the book is endless, and the pages never cease,
I don't think I'm ever going to get some release.

It's one bad story or another in this unending book,
And I'm always the protagonist, her, the crook.
But what makes crooks descend to such lows,
Is it because their lives, painful, were filled with blows?

So, it's torment to me, the helpless boy clutching his stuffed animal,
Who never moved on from seeing abuse: it took a toll.
How do I help her but protect myself at once?
The poison slinks toward my lips through the passing of the months.