|May 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Two|
|C. L. Bledsoe|
|Letter To My Sister
He hits you.
Believe me I know
how much you think youíll miss him,
because youíve got yourself convinced
that it makes you
special; that heís singled you out
as his one and only
victim, and thereís a certain sense
of intimacy in that. I guess you think
that if you left, his fists would atrophy from lack of use;
he would die alone,
and all of that.
You think itís love.
But I have to tell you something.
I saw him at a bar the other night.
He was with a blonde, she looked 22,
maybe younger. She said something and I turned.
He had his fingers curled into a fist.
And she was crying.