Accusations flung across the room like so many splinters
Of broken glass
Meet their mark and wound --
The pain predictable but no less cruel.
His voice is the weapon, her skin the thin membrane
He penetrates --
Plumbing the depths of her desire,
Pulling her despair out by the roots.
His hands have yet to touch the pale flower of her face
His brutality is not physical but still the marks can be seen --
Blue eyes blackened with sleepless nights
Nails bitten to the quick, hands shake like water.
The petals of her affection have begun to decay
The silent thoughts moldering: "He Loves Me/He Loves Me Not..."
As she bends the fragile stem of her being
Under the battering winds of his relentless rage.
The pain predictable, but no less cruel
His words meet their mark and wound
Heart shattering like so much glass
The last splinter of her self drifting slowly to the ground.