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Hailyn Suarez May 2017
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

— The End —