And Then, The Silence

K. Barratt

blood-splatter-set-brush

 

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

You dump 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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