Not a Good Look For You

The balled-up body before blows land is limp yet tense like tight, lean skeins of yarn being wound all up, helpless; a means to an end. And yelping, succumbing as a sharp-crying seagull to some air’s bites, alive and alight, lungs squeezing in rips. I know no more of what sounds slipped. Tipped tongue, tapped teeth; brought no one relief.