Maelea Mercado

You twist my fingers and pull my hair,
Throw me up into the air.
Then beat me down,
As i try not to make a sound.
If you hear my cry,
I might die.

I lock myself in my room
Icing the wounds from the broom
I walk to the bathroom and inspect my face
I look out of place
Swollen lips
My stomach flips
Hollow eyes
Are not a surprise
My rib cage hurts
I expect the worst

I'm slowly dying
But I'll keep trying
to call the police
So i can rest in peace