Domestic Violence

Blood from wounds leaking onto tables covered in linen
Dressed in the style that you might find in a kitchen
Tears mixed with sweat mixed with raw bouts of emotions
Both sides of the table in utter commotion…

Rank isn’t size it’s a prostitute of defense
Him being the one that uses the defense
Wouldn’t know it from the tears;
“Cuz it’s like I’m crying too baby…
You shouldn’t make me this way cuz you’ve been bitch lately”

That’s a pure laugh like sharing some nostalgia
Your man wouldn’t know pain if he got ate by an alligator
He walks from the table to open up the fridge
Standing in the hallway the three of their kids
Close enough to the action to just be out of sight
Like a sniper leads his victim walking through the night
But it’s bound as hell to leave an indelible impression
Mom with her face and the blood, no expression.
With a quick sideways glance from the corner of her eye
A full turn, recognition, trying to stop crying
“Kids go to bed…everything’s gonna be alright”


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