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This is the hardest
poem I have ever written.
It is hard 
because I am wincing,
because my father
just hit my sister 
and I saw all, all,
all of it. I saw 
the black eye and 
I saw the bruised 
cheek and I saw 
what battered looks
like. If my father 
were a bridge, I’d jump.
He’s not a bridge 
though and I am 
deeply ashamed of 
my own thoughts
and I hold on hold onto
them with my hands tight
praying myself into
the ends of things.

— published in Linebreak

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