Nooo!

Screaming thoughts fall out of my mouth as a calloused
hand pulls hair in the opposite direction of my head.
I should say something. I should say something now.
But what is it? What does she want to hear?
Spinning, the room comes full circle:
bed, door, dresser, door, window, desk, bed, WALL.
Spots and circles of light flash in tiny bursts in my eyes
that are shut tight but I can still see them...
Searing words cut into me like the edges of
a cat o' nine tails:
words curve out into the air, up, then back again. SNAP.
Bits of bone, metal, and cold glass,
knock me on my eight year old ass.
Silently I start agreeing to whatever she says:
Yes, it's all my fault. Yes, I should have known better.
Yes, I should have listened to you.
Yes, you'll give me something to cry about.
Hands shake me as if it's their only purpose in life.
I should tell her something. I should say something now.
But what does she want to hear? I cry out to God, and...
for the briefest moment she sees my pain...sees me.
Now she is angry at herself, but I am still the target.
The words come again, a lurid litany,
a dictionary full of friction, then fire.
Letmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoletmegoletmego.
Roots of bitterness find fertile ground in blook-soaked soil,
and I will nuture them for years with resentment, regret, and noise.
Finally
she is gone
and my mind begins to build walls around this experience
to keep it away from the rest...
and hidden behind the bars of denial
and walls of haunted heartache lives
the little boy who never stops saying, "I'm sorry, momma."