Malice

There is a small bespectacled man

stalking us. I suspect he’s one

of Father’s cronies. But

I’m not intimidated,

I scoff at danger.

Father is cheap enough

to dog our steps,

having already bulldozed

our lives. I have seen Mother

swallow hard, when the postman

knocks. But we shall not be

pitiful. We have the court order.

It is pinned behind the writing desk,

to ward off evil malicious men.

I think I’m becoming sour

about the male species.

Let it happen.

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