Roused from sleep by the sound of sobbing,
I reached out for my sweet,
wondering over the wetness in her eyes.
Her cries filled the dark room
as she shook.
"His face, his face," she mutters into her hands.
That crook, that fiend,
that stain on society.
He is unconcerned, free, happy,
while she has terrors, anxiety.
I want to tell her that one day
he will get what's comin' to him,
that, inside, he knows he is ****,
that he will suffer in some way.
maybe today, maybe tomorrow,
maybe next year,

But then, my heart crumples in fear,
because there is no guarantee.
Instead I mumble.
"If we see him,
I will punch him in the face."
Violence with violence,
is there any other way?