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Thursday, April 30, 2015

No. 17 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month, TRIGGER WARNING

This is dedicated to the women (and men) who fought and are fighting daily and for those who died during their fight. A fight they didn't choose. ‪#‎NationalSexualAssaultAwarenessMonth‬
Please also note that this is not a comprehensive, complete story. It is a fragment of the many stories of many women (and some men). This story is also inspired by some of my own life events. Appreciate this part of my mind / piece of my heart.


He was her bad habit
Like bitten nails on nubby finger pads 
Picking at healing scabs       
Uncomfortable, yet comforting

And who could gauge what's worse?

Her seeming complacency
Or his contentment with lending hurt
He passed out jabs like Rocky and beef slabs
Leaving her rare, black and blue

Willing herself to believe that this love was true
And this not only affects her, it's killing her kids, two

And she'll never see her grow up, and wipe her tears
Never tell him it's okay to cry while facing his fears

He'd buried wounds so deep, it's difficult to dig in and heal
So she let the infection steep and tried to conceal

Until she wasted inwardly away
All but a beautiful bandaged corpse
And those she knew would say, 'but he showed such great remorse!'       

'She must have done something wrong!'
'Why did she make him so upset?'
'She must've done something she'd soon find to regret'
There ain't no rest for the wicked
Her offender walks free
As she lay gone forever
It was her fault; it must be

Mirakol Smith, April 30, 2015

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