Scarlet petals leaked from her skin,
danced between torn pores to the world above,
a rose perfume strong enough for the sharks to smell
in the ocean that roared two miles away.
Tears, salty as those waters,
fell with a silence that lent quiet
in the midst of brutality.
She cried out as her piano-player hands
scrabbled against the floor, searching for safety
when she was shoved to the ground.
Her knees burned from the rough rug beneath her,
but she caught herself well, for her body was practiced
in the art of survival.
Another singer’s scream ripped through the air,
as once again, he grabbed her hair,
accompanying her hurt with a harmony of yells,
of demands and rhetorical questions,
drifting through the walls of the flat,
roaring above the static-y crescendo
of the wincing neighbor’s radio.
A slap proved to be the eye of the storm,
and even the stereo seemed to be muted for a moment,
when she stood and raised her hand like
she’d never done before,
but had wanted to for such a long time.
Everything was still,
until time approached once again,
and they were plunged once again into the fury
of harmful winds and hurt,
as his face contorted into a hurricane of hate.
Her cries grew louder with his fury, seemed to sprout
from that red mark on his cheek, shaped so delicately,
with an almost graceful slope to her rare defiance.
The people across the hall turned up their music
and tried to drown themselves in shameful ignorance but
their guilt sang louder than the stereos could go.
Mourning-glory marks
would decorate her on the morrow,
when he’d turn to her with tears and apologize,
and she’d mumble some words,
and try to forget the monster inside her house.
The neighbors, chancing upon her in the hallway,
would turn away and stare at the wall,
hollow apologies in their hollow eyes,
when they happened upon her husband’s
display of love: a beautiful bouquet of mottled black,
blooming across her lovely face.
She would have nothing for them, no explanations, only humiliation.
Those shame-faced neighbors, who'd put their
brave foot forward and resolve to make the call,
let their backbone wither again and again,
not wanting to create trouble,
not wanting to be involved,
took their hands off her release, her rescue from the man
she used to know, the man she can’t help but love,
who teaches her silence
with the back of a hand and a whole lot of hate.
So, I still don't really like the end. I know that there's too much imagery, but I don't know what else to cut out. And cutting lines always hurts. >.<
Any thoughts? I'd love any suggestions or comments, even if it's something like "meh".
Thanks!
-Coral-
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