Her favourite colours
The bruises will fadewounds turn into scars soon enough.
It's funny how black, blue and purple
are actually her favourite colours.
At least they used to be,
before that first punch
and before that first kick.
She remembers the first thing he broke;
her favourite vase in those very colours.
Was that a sign?
Were the black, blue and purple shards
spread across the oak floorboards
of their living room
an indication of what would happen to her heart?
She doesn't know.
All she knows is
she has to leave
before her heart is irreparable.
It's been patched up
and glued back together so often
it breaks that much easier now.
She fears one day it'll be broken beyond repair
and so she leaves
for the umpteenth time
but this time
for good.
Poetry by Hilda
Read 878 times
Written on 2008-09-28 at 11:30
Tags Violence Abuse Surviving
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