Mr. Bills

Mr. Bills prose poem

Photo by rklopfer

Last week, on the only day it rained, he hit me. Hit me so hard as I fell to the ground I asked myself will this be his last time? I saw colors, all dark shades and hues. Dark blues, purples – more like beet reds; some turned brown after healing. This one makeup couldn’t hide, no more butterflies when I saw him only flashes of red indicating to me that I should run because he was dangerous. But I didn’t. Don’t ask why. I’ve been bamboozled, tricked into doing the unthinkable – staying…here. You see, Bills loves me… He tells me every day in the only way he knows love. WITH HIS FIST. Nonetheless, I’ve grown to expect a hit, even when I’ve done everything right from day to night. I remember crying hot tears of fear. There are no tears left, you can only hear my screams and after a while those too fade as my throat raws. I’ve made it home now. Bills is gone now. He’s left and I’m the only one who knows wherever he’s gone this time he’ll stay. How can I be so sure of this? I’ll never say. Nobody looks for him. He wasn’t a good man, husband, or friend.

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