bruised.

Oh, when his knuckles turn red,

He breathes heavy,

I still stay,

He loves me, he promised again,

Mama, don’t you worry.

Hand raised,

His lips murmuring the sweet nothings,

Fury burning his heart,

Words lulling me to the oblivion,

Oh mama, don’t you worry.

Tender kisses, bruising grips,

Blue eyes, skin a different shade,

Burns me with his fight,

Mama, why do you worry so much?

Oh mama, I’m fine.

He loves me, mama, he loves me,

He promised, mama, he promised,

To love me, to be gentle with me.

But I still walk on eggshells.

Wine, roses and candles wait for him to come home,

He walks back, slurring with sweet nothings,

Oh mama, I am bruised.

Face pressed to the rug I bought,

His grip too harsh,

Wine spilled, shards in my skin,

The roses mock me now,

The wax drips,

The flame burn,

Like the fire in me used to,

Oh mama, I think you should worry now.

Forced grip, chapped lips pressed to mine,

I can’t get him off my skin now,

I stained his sheets,

Imprinting my being on them,

For my sake, worry for me, oh mama.

His knuckles are bruised now,

His brow full of sweat,

Eyes tender, he whispers the words of love to my dead being,

Wounds clean, the love so ugly,

Mama, why don’t you worry?

(Image from Pinterest)