There is a strange feeling of contempt in my home
I've grown used to the beatings
Whether it be a tongue lashing or being dragged across the halls
Both feel the same, I no longer cry, I feel only emptiness
I expect it now, the scent of bourbon seems to follow it home
It clings to all life and ***** it dry, a concubine not fit to marry
We keep it in our closets, behind shallow doors that do not shut
As if to hide them.