Bruised

My bruises are dark purple

like grapes, they ache.

My temple bandage is itchy.

I seldom cast aspersions,

but this is his handiwork.

It has his smell.

Like an ugly nicotine fog,

full of vice.

But there’s no proof,

only an old woman’s intuition,

hardly concrete testimony.

The fiend needs to be cast

behind bars, kept well away

from young impressionable minds.

I do not say this lightly.

The man is evil.

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