alone
and silently, internally, she screams
for she knows better than to betray her pain
else the neighbours might hear her
might tell him
or he might see her face tear stained
and will take, as always
his anger, his disappointment
with himself
diluted by
a bottle
a glass
a can
and that lack of these
will precipitate once again
the blackened eyes
the inward tears
the bruised skin
all of those outward signs
that she would once again
have to skilfully disguise
so her scream continues silently
stifled to the world outside
dying to a silent
whimper
as she watches the clock
and waits
for his key
to turn almost silently
in the lock