1 min read

The Cowardice of Him

For her to cry, it hurts but she does, regardless.

when she comes over
her eyes are swollen
at the edges pink like
sky before sunrise
& toward the centre
indigo before the sun
says its goodbyes

for her to cry, it hurts
but she does, regardless

she tells me how that
prick lost control, came
thundering fists to punch
his ‘mole’, expressed
violence in an explosion
of moment that he will
claim, to the cops, was
just a happenstance

so i console, listen to her
sob about all the reasons
how it was her own fault

i tell her to wash her brain
of brainwash, that this has
nothing to do with her
but rather the anger of
another angry white male
who never got enough
love, whose father probably
beat him up, who thinks
that a fist equals love

& when she falls asleep
counting black sheep
i plot how best to teach
to hunt down this creep
show him that men should
only punch men, that women
are sacred, are there to be
mothers & lovers & significant
others of such significance that
instead of punching them it is
better to punch a wall instead

& there, in that moment of
thinking, i lay my fists down
realise that violence does not
answer violence, but all i can
do is be my friend’s friend
help her mend, help her
comprehend that yes, no
men aren’t worth the
bruising, that to the
curb such men we
should send

but in the morning, in the
swell of dawning, she
awakes, tells me that
for fucks sake she has
had enough, that enough
is enough, that the prick
shall pay by her own hand
as she dials the cops, &
for a moment we are
both happy again