He clenches her throat,
Squeezing her jugular with abrasive, demanding hands,
Hands that used to smell of flower stems and home.
Those roses had long ago died,
Seeped into the kitchen tiles.
Feminine hands search frantically, helplessly,
She mumbles into his beat red face,
Begging God for help.
He dominates her, crushes her, blankets her in darkness.
Vision blurs, blood pulses furiously to her head.
She tries to scream out the window,
The door,
The unseen skylight,
Into the crowded streets.
Everything looks normal from the outside,
Shutters drawn just so, the chimney smoking seductively in whispers.
Passenger's see the house as a sanctuary, a safe haven.
Inside, the walls are beat, bloodied, and bruised,
Displaying black and blue marks,
Harmonizing with her beautiful brown skin.
"I love you too much," he groans pushing deeper into her flesh,
Forcing his bleached fingers into her tormented soul.
A soul that had been whole once,
Before he came, before she let him take hold,
Before he became God.
She gasps as fluttering images invade her mind,
Her daughters' precious smiles, brown curls,
Cloaking her dark mind in light,
Filtering through the clouds.
Liquor breaks the mirage,
Forcing her back into the present.
He's pressing his swollen lips to her forehead,
Soaking in her sober, filling his nostrils with her scent.
He still looks beautiful.
He looks like the man she married at 17.
He looks God-like.
He is God.
Heartbeat slows, pulse un-rhythmically beats,
Blackness devours her eyes, shutting out the perfectly formed home.
All that's left is the soft giggles of her daughters'
Echoing through her empty body.
But, at least she sees angels.
This would be a spoken poem