I never thought a sky could rain
when it was blue.
It's cerulean waves are shadowed with clouds
dripping their irony until it becomes falling water.
They're laughing at me, I know,
berating me for the gothic color spectrum
clinging like a lover
to my eye.

Why couldn't you stop it? they crow at me.
We know you could have tried.
I did, I did!
Though my volley of tiny, child-like words
can't read the sky's ears.

I'm left alone,
my bare feet dangling from an aged
and rickety oak porch.
My legs are almost long enough to caress the grass,
and I am almost old enough
for him to get me, too.

I almost wish those dark clouds would come back;
their malignant comments didn't bother me that much.
Really.
But they grew tired of my futile efforts
and weaknesses, just like he did.

The rain itself lightens,
becoming a mist that makes the air heavy
and clings to my naked legs.
I try to brush the slickness off,
but it, like the bruise beneath my eye,
is stubborn.

I pull my legs away from the wood
and blink against the sunlight and drizzle.
Slipping on a soggy, worn pair of
rain-soaked tennis shoes,
I take to the road.

I'm not worried about the neighbors;
it doesn't matter if they see me.
Most of them know already.
My feet pound on the pavement,
an echo moving just as fast as his heartbeat
when he hit me.

My breath catches with a cramp in my side
and my heart quickens to match my feet;
match his own pulse that I can still feel
against my skin.

It's offensive, yes,
but I suppose I'm used to it,
just as I'm used to running this road
and the rain that had soaked me through.