the eighties.

if two hands were slapping my face

it would hurt more than one hand.

if two people were chasing me

down a gravel road

where it’s easy to slip and fall

it wouldn’t be worse than one

unless they were 

planning on holding me down

together

after catching me

and pulling my hair

compressing my rib cage

tying my arms to a tree

and then leaving me there

with bleeding knees.

the sound of two voices

laughing at me

would hurt more than one.

I could still be faster

lock the door behind me

go torture the cat.