Poem.

A Sunday night just like the rest, you see,
Almost midnight, almost Monday, almost gone with me.
It was the final time she’d face his eyes,
At least alive — and she knew no disguise.

Life, aware of her deep fragility,
Locked them together in calamity.
The shouts became her most dreaded nights,
For every meeting brought fresh new fights.

She was never one to crave gold or stone,
But each scar he left, she kept as her own,
A silent proof carved under her skin,
That he existed — through pain within.

He needed no keepsake, no fragile thing,
Power alone was what he’d cling.
Her tears from memory would never stray;
Yet, they were all he wished to stay.

Weary, she counted her fortune in fears,
Lost in the timeline of shadowed years.
Alone, she watched him and felt the chill,
Recalling each blow, she remembers still.

The distance between two bodies may fade,
But not the shadow his hands had made,
Except when one walks away for good —
And so she did, as she knew she should.

This torment could not forever remain,
Without a deeper, more lasting pain;
But the harm he planted, day by day,
Drained her strength, stole her way.

She cried her feelings, clear and true,
He ruled with iron, as tyrants do.
He prized her silence, her shrinking light,
She paid too much for surviving the night.

He might miss her from time to time,
More than he guessed in his own rhyme.
The story would end, hard and fast,
No matter the dreams she wished to last.

They would remain apart, both torn,
She cursed the gods she once had sworn.
She had believed in the “I love you” lies,
That hide in violence, beneath disguise.

One morning came with a cloudless sky,
Without a glance, she said goodbye.
Why she had trembled, she knew before long:
What he called love — was violence all along.

Dade.