Blood on the Sofa
Faraway
sirens signal the start
of
questions 'til midnight, affairs of the heart.
What
was the reason, what did he say?
What
did you do to make him act that way?
How
can I tell them I simply forgot
to
wash his best shirt, or his tea was too hot.
When
I can't understand, do I tell them the truth?
He
accused me of sleeping around with no proof.
They
ask, was he drinking, did he get drunk tonight,
does
he take any drugs and how long was the fight?
I
don't know if I answer, I don't care anymore.
I
can see the red mark where my head hit the door.
I no
longer feel the hot tears on my face,
My
heart is consumed with fear and disgrace.
Again
I say that this is the last time.
But
there's blood on the sofa and I know that it's mine.
Cheryl Walker
