A poem about domestic violence: 

My daddy loved me
And he liked to, dance with me, under the moonlight above me, see,
When he got back from work,
Reeking of the days toll, an unsteady mess,
He’d pull me to his chest, and we’d dance.
Our dance. This dance,
Like one of his addictions, or perhaps the product of,
He couldn’t rid himself of, our free style rhythms,
His songs, his songs, his songs, so repetitive,
With every step, every slick movement,
The monster that consumed him became more evident
Classical daddy.
Expressing the ecstasy, in his system with the tango,
Entangling me in his grasp, twisting my arms to meet his gaze,
At which point he’d whisper in to my ears “hateful nothings”
Balancing his troubles, his sadness, on my shoulders
Like boulders taking gravity’s side, I’d, sink down, missing a stride,
But he’d always be there to catch me, wanting to finish,
Beating the rhythms of his blues on my back.
Then a twist, a bend, a turn, a kick,
Rocking and rolling me through the rooms until I felt sick.
And always, my mother stood in the distance, watching daddy and I twirl,
Never once cutting in, taking her dance partner away from daddy’s little girl.
But today, Judging from his unsteady gait, and the intoxicating aroma he brought along the way,
I knew, we were going to waltz.
A slow methodic, beating of sound, His arms swinging around
As I, stood silent, as the tempo speed, He takes the lead
Doing my best to dodge and weave when he stubbles to his feet,
Until finally, he whisks me off to bed,
My hands still clinging to his chest,
And I laid in the darkness of my room, caressing ever bruise, black and blue,
What a toll it took to dance with daddy,
On my soul, on my face, my arms, my legs,
But I lay in the darkness, waiting the next day,
Trembling at thought of this broken records replay
Cause see, my daddy loved me,
And when we danced, he had a hell of a way showing it.
-Tiffany Ike