Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2017
one of the few things
I remember is standing
at the corner of his garage
pleading please, stop.
while he laughed, circled
the pool table, breaking
the billiards into two pockets
close and tight, that wide
grin spread across his
face before sprinting
through his front door
hoping i'd be too drunk
to remember him spitting
*get yourself home on your own
closely followed by waking up to his
cold hands, a soft sorry,
you'll be okay, he's whispering.

you'll be okay.


(c) Brooke Otto 2017
brooke
Written by
brooke
Please log in to view and add comments on poems