The Final Blow
The broom handle
came down swift.
Bruise bumps
rising on my skin
Without within.
I screamed and cried
with each blow
'Till I heard
the handle crack.
I don't remember what I did
but anger flushed
her contorted face and
her weapon was the
broom this time.
I struggled to get the
broom from her grip...
She feigned to faint,
I left her there on the floor.
At nineteen, I would
flee and that would be
the last time she
would ever get to beat on me.
9-3-16
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
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