And Then, The Silence

K. Barratt



He killed me.

He kicked, he struck, he bit,

The flow of my blood spraying

The walls red, tiny rose petals

Falling as autumn leaves onto

The rug -my skin, my bones,

Bruised, split, my screams muffled

By his hand.

And he killed me.

I begged, I pleaded, I ran.

He dragged me by the hair

And made a stand over my chest,

My fear imploding in, my days rolling out

Like a film projected over my eyes, my mum

-Poor my mum. Who will tell

Her that his fingers crushed my throat

Until I could breathe no more?

And he killed me, despite my shrieks.

My fright, the visits to the police,

The warning signs no one could see but I.

I did leave, you know. I did pack my bags,

Refused to be a victim more.

And yet he killed me,

In my flat, over my throw, my pictures

Watching me go. And I hit. I scratched,

I buckled, I wept. It made no difference.

I was disposed of, like a rag doll;

Like a piece of trash

Dumped without a second thought.

And he killed me.

And I will never know if he got

Away with it. He must of have.

After all, who cares for another sad fact,

Another blurry photograph in a tiny

Corner of the Evening  Standard?

Yet I loved and laughed and mattered.

I was fully alive before my time with him.

I was beautiful and bright and my hands

Were heavy with dreams, and my eyes could

Always find beauty in this world

-This wretched, wicked world where he is killing me,

Turning black and cold and thick,

Devoid of all tenderness. Shrinking,

Rapidly, away for me.

And then, the silence.

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