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He wouldn’t hurt the door

“What are you wearing?”
(Nearly sneering, a trap.)
          She looked down at her own body.
          A soft white t-shirt, grey sweatpants
          with the legs pulled up to the calves,
          running shoes. Typical for a teenage girl.
He started slowly, building steam,
careful not to yell—
he might never even raise his voice,
but anger, near hatred, boiled just below the surface. Disgust.
          No good answer, so the truth?
          “Um, it’s just what I wore today.”
          Stammered, looking around, looking down,
          caught off guard.
He quaked with the rising anger, 
aflame, body tensed, clenched muscles 
in his face, his arms, a familiar muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched.
“How could you go out of the house dressed like that?”
He lunged.
          She bolted around him,
          ran up the stairs,
          ran as fast as she could run,
          slammed the bathroom door
          locking it just as he got there.
Though she was unsure how long the wait might be,
she thought he wouldn’t break it open—
          he wouldn’t hurt the door.

Published inPoetry