He struck.
A blow—
not with fists,
but with force that knew my name.

Tears rose,
not from sorrow,
but from shock.
Salt blurred my sight.
I closed my eyes
to survive.

Still—
he came.
Slaps.
Blows.
A storm with no face.

He twisted my hair
like he owned my roots.
Lifted me
as if to unmake me.
Tried to strip me bare—
but I clung
to cloth,
to dignity,
to skin.

He tossed me
like debris in wind.
I clung to a pole—
not for safety,
but for self.

I could not see him
through the flood in my eyes.
But I felt him.
Presence.
Pressure.
A shadow breathing violence.

So I screamed:
“Come out, coward.
Show your face.
Let’s end this—
once and for all.”

But he vanished.
No echo.
No apology.
Just absence.

It was windy this morning.
I should have stayed inside.
The wind—
it gave me
a heavy blow
in the face.