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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Contest Entry · #1912978
A pregnant mother seeks revenge for abuses laid against her.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
The paint cans sat: contents a splatter
On the walls, the ceiling, and floor.
It just didn’t matter anymore.

His splintered ladder from his dad,
A remnant of what life he had,
Now in pieces on the ground.
He won’t be making one more sound.

Beneath the paint, echoes are trapped.
A fight that ended with her being slapped.
He’s painting the room light blue, not pink.
He wondered if she’d ever think.

For herself and unborn child,
She cured a thought: it was not mild.
With ladder cut, she stood well away
On that fateful autumn day.

Broken ladder, bones, neck and spine,
She believes her actions were divine.
The police had another notion:
Law and Order and quiet commotion.

Prison baby, gray matte walls,
Blood on her hands inside those halls.
The paint color from when she was fatter:
In the end, it didn’t matter.

Line Count: 24
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