My Own Loud Voice

He shoved the smaller boy,

a quick, mean jerk.

His voice, a bluster,

a familiar work

of practiced cruelty,

loud and clear.

I stood there, stiff,

choking back a fear.

The scuff mark on his shoe,

a dark, grim crescent.

It caught the light,

a sickening fluorescent

memory. My own foot

had dragged that way.

The words I used to spit,

day after day.

That sudden puff of chest,

the sneer he wore.

A mirror, ugly,

rotting to the core.

I turned away,

my stomach cold and sour.

The echo of my power,

in that dark hour.