A scorching night of booze-inspired yells lingers in the air.

The Heat causes the mistakes to stick to the yellowed, resin walls and the sweat soaked sheets.

The cold showers wash nothing but the dried tears off of a swollen cheek.


The phrase, "I promise that was the last time," beats almost as hard as the punch, inside the mind.

And the icy drops sting the bruises.


Three weeks go by without a clenched fist or locked jaw.

Any moment. Another swing, another hit, another excuse to try and hide.


Questions are asked, lies are told, judgments are made.


Until it ends. One way, or another. 


This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


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