Bully for you

For three and thirty years,
I’ve carried you,
Each time there is,
A thunder storm,
Or when the work is heavy.
I’ve been reminded,
Of your eight year old self.
The one who was my bully.
I remember with no joy,
The fear and dread,
You caused for me,
And how you drove,
That fist so hard,
While pinning me,
Against that concrete pipe.
How you delighted,
Sought me out,
Just to exact,
Another dose of pain.
Saliva flecked your lips,
Your eyes were wild,
And you delighted,
In my misery.
But worse,
I remember still,
The day I broke.
Waking early,
Sick with fear.
And walking out,
In predawn light,
To smash my hand,
With heavy rocks,
Just so that I might,
Avoid your face.
I dropped those rocks,
Onto my hand.
Aiming for knuckles,
Aiming for tiny fingers,
Again, again, and then,
Once more
Until through all the pain,
I knew they would not break.
And so defeated, wounded,
I returned to lie to mum,
About the wounds,
And went and took,
My beating once again.
Again, again,
Always being smashed,
But cleverly,
So I could always walk,
And nothing much,
Would show.
But still I recall you.
Call you beast of Abingdon.
Each time those knuckles throb,
From rocks that did not save,
A little boy from Nicolas.



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