Maybe I should have
walked on eggshells,
kept my face down,
and only spoke
when spoken to.

It’s not like
she broke my tooth
or cracked a bone.
Even if
the shirts were ripped
at least she didn’t
make me bleed.

If I gave her
the satisfaction,
if I had been meek enough,
Instead of wanting
to laugh and play
buying comic books
when I got paid;

Maybe if I understood
her rage
I wouldn’t have been
slapped in the face,
had my hair pulled,
Or been hit with the broom
the mop, the dust mop,
the brush, the boot,
the belt, or whatever
she could use.

Maybe, I deserved the bruise,
the welt, the agony,
the isolation.
Maybe, I shouldn’t have been born.

It must have been my fault.
It had to be my fault
or else it doesn’t
make any sense at all.