Storms

They say that lightning never strikes in the same place twice,

But he’s always been a man of repetition.

The bruises on my neck have turned yellow and black

The veins on my stomach bleed a royal blue with every jab of a closed fist

The storm is in the palm of his hand.

Thunder cracks in the brown leather belt,

But the rain is his own.

It falls on my mouth and my chest as he grips my shoulders in forceful apology,

But his smile is cloudy.

Even his kisses feel like hail

My cheeks are scarred, freckles burning red

“I love you”s get caught in my throat

Stuck on his thick fingers squeezing, I’m squirming, and the lightning keeps striking.

But I threw my umbrella out years ago

When he promised me that there would never be storms in California.

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