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Letters from my husband
The Face
I see the face
of the man
who held me down
who held my hands
he kisses me
not gently
a violent carress
and he could care less
I see his face
on top of me
he won't stop
and he won't leave
I don't know
or undersntad
I see the face
of the man
~MAH
The Punching Bag
It hangs there
in the center of the room
it's only function
is a release of his anger
No one asks it
if it wants to be a punching bag
it knows its purpose
what it was created for
sometimes it wants to change
to be a butterfly
but it keeps that bottled up
how can it ever be something else
that's such a silly thought
how would he release his anger if it does not stay
and so it hangs there
fresh with blood from his knuckles
waiting for the next hit
it watches as he paces back and forth
cringing each time his hands move
waiting for it-almost needing it
because it knows it will be hit
here comes his fist
oh, sweet relief
it has begun, so soon it will end
frantically he rages at the punching bag
though his anger cannot be quenched
the punching bag knows its destiny is being fulfilled
this is what it was created for
it takes each blow
knowing it will not be the last
fearing the worst
knowing it will be torn apart
it shuts out the pain
it knows its place
it will forever be that outlet for his rage
it has accepted its fate
MAC
12:24 pm
11/3/04