I let him hit me
spit in my face
to protect not me
not them
but her.
We’ve been through this before
the chains,
the glass,
the fists.
not her.
A shove so hard
the wood
protecting the window
breaks.
A split second thought-
do I rise,
do I speak,
but I don’t.
We’ve been through this before-
the homes,
the systems.
alone,
not her.
We could survive
if it were just us.
Not knowing
was the risk
so-
I let him hit me,
break me,
to protect not me
not them
but her.
To be the oldest
is to know better:
not all battles
are won
by rising.
About the Creator
Tennessee Garbage
Howdy! There is relatable stuff here- dark and twisty and some sentimental garbage. "Don't forget to tip your waitresses" Hi, I am your waitress, let me serve you with more content. Hope you enjoy! :)
Keep reading
More stories from Tennessee Garbage and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foraging Appalachia’s Wild Edibles
It's that time of year again and Appalachia offers a remarkable abundance for anyone willing to learn its seasonal gifts and practice careful gathering. Across ridges, holler's, stream-side's, and meadows, edible plants, berries, roots, and fungi appear through every part of year. Knowledge is key and teaches not only what can be eaten, but also how to gather with respect so that these resources remain available far into future.
By Tim Carmichael3 days ago in Feast
Comments (2)
I love your "trailer trash" creations; soul crushing reality and a Wiz of a writer. I did 16 years of life in Tennessee. Nashville and north toward Kentucky border. I am hoping this fictional. ✌️
man this is a powerful poem, does hurt to see a person have to sacrifice to save another