I just stood there and continued washing the dishes as I heard beating after beating.
As I heard the palm of her hand hit her delicate little body.
I used to engage
I used to throw myself into the situation the moment I saw her raising her hand about to hit.
I used to beg her to stop but now I don't care anymore it seems
As though that part of me that used to care for her has died.
I sometimes wonder
How can one beat their kid? Your own flesh and blood. The kid that you grew in your stomach for 9 months straight the kid you feed your breast milk to, the kid you gave birth to?
Even after she beat her, I took her out of the room and held her in my arms as she wept feeling her guilt swallowing her whole.
But the guilt is never enough to make her stop.
She apologizes of course every time
But it never stops
Never ends...
YOU ARE READING
Haunted |+18|
PoetryA letter of all the things I cannot say out loud but am constantly thinking and being haunted by. Dark content used in the story Read at your own risk
