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Something from 7.12.2015

​The monster is back,
not the monster under your bed,
instead a monster reeked in alcohol.

Muffled screams,
hushed cries,
her effort to mask the monster,
hiding behind the curtains,
the hell of her life.
She told the children to hide,
somewhere out of his reach,
away from his punches,
she will stay,
along with her blue-blacks from yesterday.

Broken inside,
a mask refraining her,
from shattering onto the ground,
a finger hanging onto the cliff.
No one was there to help,
for one’s too blind to even realise,
that hollow look in her glassy eyes,
as she paced down the aisle,
with her blue-berry cake.

It was too late,
to hear her silent cry,
for one’s too deaf to hear,
her scream on the inside,
as her skin ripped apart,
beyond repair.

No one saw or heard,
her soul seeping away,
making her escape,
from the bars,
that held her on for a decade.

She prayed, 
for her children,
to be away from the claws of the Devil,
in the hands of the angels,
one day,
even if she didn't managed to stay,

One day,
they could run away.

A fragment of my thoughts on domestic abuse.


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