A poem about domestic abuse.
|The idea of growing old
With someone is so romantic
Until that is your reality
And you watch them grow frail, and weak, and sick
Growing old sounds romantic
Until your sat in that old chair
And even with piles of medication
The pain is excruciating and too much to bare
It all sounds romantic
Until you realise all you’ll never do
Despite your mental capacity
Your body is far, far from new.
And you regret missing the sunset
Or staring at the stars
You regret focusing so much time
On men, money and bars
You long for the sand,
The grains separating each toe
When part time jobs and adventure
Were all you needed to know.
The idea of growing old
With someone is just so sweet
Until you realise, there the reason
You never felt sand beneath your feet.
And those eyes watched you cry
And that mouth spread a smirk
And those hands bruised your freckles
Because you called him a jerk.
And that arm dropped your baby,
And those knees slammed the door,
To prevent you running in
And seeing what he saw.
Of the baby minus breath,
Limbs loose and small
So you run to the phone
Desperate to make the call.
But he cut off the line
With the knuckles (normally closed)
And he ‘dealt’ with the situation
And from the floor, babies blood was hosed.
And now he sits in a wet patch
In that stupid old chair
Confused, deaf, old and weak
Still holding the same blank, loveless stare
And you’ve packed your bags,
Cut the phone lines, grabbed the keys
Walking boldly out the door,
You couldn’t give a fuck if he sees.
Too weak to grab you,
Or even walk, his voice now stolen
Just like yours was,
Not too long before.
Leave him in a puddle
Of whiskey, urine and regret
As you walk out on the torment
You will never forget.