Her eyes are glassy
as she tries to look perfect
and nice and classy
for the one guy worth it.
As he pulls up to the house
she fluffs her wavy hair,
getting quiet as a mouse,
now hyper-aware.
Is that a slammig door?
Has he had a bad day?
Will he call her a whore?
Will he make her pay?
His eyes ablaze
with crimson fire
he stomps inside
with open ire.
"You," he sneers,
"Let me guess!"
His voice confirms fears,
all her questions answered yes.
"No dinner on the table?
But you had time to get dressed up!"
She knows he's unstable,
that she cannot speak up.
He adds to her bruises,
easily hidden on her arms.
How could she be so clueless,
putting herself in such harm?
Maybe she just thinks
she deserves it.
Maybe she knows he's on the brink,
loves him too much to let go of him.
Perhaps she's scared
or ashamed,
too unprepared,
and always blamed.
He always claims
a momentary lapse
but she always takes the blame,
with pain enough to cause collapse.
Her friends sometimes catch
a look at exposed purple skin
but explanations they do not fetch.
Of cruelties, she will not own in.
They watch each day
as with desperation
she begins to slip away,
her life in conflagration.
But then one day,
as she watches him approach
angrily, though she knows not why,
as she chooses not to broach,
she stands her ground,
her voice wavering
but spirit found.
"I'm gonna leave,"
she says with a painful tear.
"Goodbye Steve."
"Goodbye, my dear."
The others may follow suit
if their hearts strong enough
to not take the too-trodden route
that leaves heart and skin so rough.
