The Storm

I sense the clouds of tension grow,

counting down the thunder of his growl.

And the first few words, spit; hit;

I'm hurrying for my shelter,

huddling in a corner of my mind.

But my shelter's seen better days

The roof leaks in some angry words,

hurled like hail and leaving me spinning

in a tornado of soaking hurt.

The weakened door let's in a torrent

of confusion and gushing accusations.

I try to ride the boiling waves, terrified,

scared and half-alive; drowning by the vicious currents.

As I despair, the thin walls crumble

and the chilling presence of the wind

empties me of warmth and hope

then catches my cheek in one, harsh, stinging blow.