A poem from the past

I got in the way
As you took out your rage on
the walls, the futon, the floor.
What was once my cell phone is now your weapon.

"Go home," I repeated, over and over.
"This is my home," you screamed, sobbing drunkenly.
"Please stop," I cried quietly, my face rubbed into the carpet.

How surprisingly together and peaceful the room was afterward
Almost untouched,
As if no nightmare had occurred. 

Nothing but a picture askew, and pictures can be straightened

Swollen flesh, not as quickly remedied.

The mind, it never forgets.

And in my heart, a picture hangs forever askew.