by Stacey Smith

Created on: July 03, 2010

He comes home, that familiar look in his eyes,

the look she knows and has come to fear.

He scowls at her and shakes his head,

his eyes are dead, but full of rage.

He grabs her arm and shouts her name,

she smells the liquor on his breath.

He pushes and yells and hits and shouts,

she cries and trembles and pleads and begs.

The words he shouts wound and cut,

as deeply as his fists that hit.

In the morning he pulls her near,

and whispers I’m sorry in her ear.

She doesn’t move as he whispers more,

her heart is battered, her body bruised.

Whispers as ugly as his shouts,

wounding her spirit and battering her soul.

Shouts and whispers are one in the same,

it doesn’t matter, they both spell pain.

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