cross

just when I learned to cross my legs
and take a hit, like a real woman
    holding back my tear;
he stabs me - some vague object
into the soft of me.  splintered stare
tells me to sit still,
and pretend he's not yelling.
but at the back of my throat,
like blind earthworms bleeding down
into the soil of my coiled up soul,
she is fighting back.

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September 1997.
(c) Denise Angela Celeste