Domestic Violence: Poetry

Her thoughts were her own

On the hospital bed,

Echoing words,

Of the things that he said

Control and cage you,

Break your soul to the core,

Say that he loves you,

Call you a scrub and a whore.

Her husband beside her,

Took his eyes from his book,

“Tidy your face girl.”

“You make me feel crook.”

It was then the door opened,

And there stood a man,

Who moved straight towards her,

And held out his hand.

The husband got angry,

And picked up his chair,

He threw it towards him,

But the man wasn't there.

Her husband's last memory,

Was the pain in his head,

The ache of ribs broken,

He’d wished he was dead.

Returned to the room,

She had tears in her eyes,

The man asked her no questions,

What-ifs and no whys.

He just held her hand,

As it shook and did shake,

He kissed it so gently,

No pain did it make.

For the rest of her time there,

He sat by her bed,

Telling her stories,

Of things they had said.

She swore then and there,

That never again,

Would a man ever control,

Or drive her insane.

By Steve Boddey