Recurrent Dreams: Criminal Record

I am in my childhood home,

    and She is here, like I never left.

I am changed,

    and I counter the biting words with my own,

    spoken louder, and stronger.

But I am angrier, not stronger,

and there is a moment where I can't take it any longer.

Clenched fists with hot knuckles,

    or hands around the throat,

        or palms made rough by a weapon,

            blunt enough to bruise, not kill.

And the moment ends with the anger fleeting,

    the fear hollowing my stomach,

    because I can't take back what I've done,

            and I know She'll make me regret it

            for far more moments to come.