When you go from a battered child to a battered wife, sometimes you begin to believe THAT is all life will ever be.
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Quietly folded into the night
sheltered and shamed . . . hidden out of sight;
raggedy doll, unable to speak.
My jaw’s at angles . . . I whisper weak
lacking a backbone
can’t stand alone;
Battered and beaten I soon fall down.
My smile is painted; inside I frown.
Bloodied, tossed with the wash to get clean
I’m agitated; he’s simply mean
When tears have dried
I’m folded outside.
The children, like starch, stiffen my will
Like little statues sitting so still
They dare not make him angry . . . it’s sad
Forced to be angels, dare not be bad
As I grow old
Quietly unfold.
I behold the orange haze of day . . .
Quietly watch as the children play,
seek our escape while the master sleeps . . .
I’ve promised them LIFE . . . this time for keeps.
Grew a backbone . . .
strength of my own