O, to be numb again…

It’s the hours that pass
between the silent air.
It’s the destitute fucking air
that seeps into the memory
and burrows a hole
into the already gaping chest.
It’s the lights off, nobody’s home,
deadbolts bolted kind of fear
that straps you into the dank
of his threats.
It’s the whispered breath,
powerless as it goes,
filthy as it recycles back
into the air,
and poison upon return.

©2013 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved

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About inpotentia

Hold Fast.
This entry was posted in Domestic Violence, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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