That haunted face of yours,
it followed me back home.
How you hit your little brother
without even blinking. You said
“Don’t look!”, but I couldn’t unsee
the violence. “I learnt it from
my mother!” you said, leaving
me angry and pondering.
If violence was inherited, so might
be compassion. “Just hit me back,”
you told him “cause that’s what you
do best.” Those lines really tore
me apart. How to survive in a world,
where everybody is an enemy and
behind every kind smile, a fist is lurking,
every second you let your guard down?
You had to become the fist yourself,
always ready to strike, tension building
desperate muscles in a scrawny body.
A starving tigress, barely old enough
to fight, yet nobody ever gave you
a choice not to.
© Matthias Geh, 20th June 2018