The pain predictable

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.

The End

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