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At first you were understanding 
and patient,
so polite and gentle,
encouraging me to express my emotions.

But then you became obsessive and jealous.
Forcing me to shut up into obedience. 
Now I think I should be silent,
because it's difficult to hide black eyes,
with the soreness of split lips.

Wounds heal, but scars remain.

If I died today,
would you even notice?
Maybe it will be you who puts me in a box.

Maybe I spoke too loud, drank too much wine,
didn't make dinner on time,
before the dishes crashed to the ground.

Then the verbal curses,
'B**ch, idiot, fu***ing whore.'
Sting like acid in my eyes.

Have I become your punching bag?

Maybe I should dress differently
not wear that red lipstick.
If I had not answered back,
you would not have raised your hands.
I would not be suffocating, drowning in the air.
But you just mock my cries,
ignore these screams,
so I only cry in the shower.

I think, I can't take this anymore,
I should run through that door,
people keep asking about the bruises,
but I keep making excuses.
But where would I go,
what about the children,
what about the shame?

Then you start to cry,
with a million apologies,
saying it's the stress,
the traumatic childhood -
that you love me,
swearing not to do it again,
insisting to start with a new slate. 

The pain peels off a little.
There is a temporary harmony in the air.
Slowly the swelling eases.
I become a slave to your sweet words,
although the sex feels like rape.

I'm on edge, looking over my shoulder,
careful not to pull the trigger,
unleashing the terror of your rage.

Once I felt safe, now I only feel afraid.
Your hands that hurt me only make me shiver...

Wondering when you will lose control again.

Silent One
19 October 2021

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