BW

She waits at the door wailing for the same Though his leather belt cracks against her spine. She believes that this time he will have changed; But that remains a wish adrift in time. And as he staggers into his old home The drunkard laughs, and cries her into fright; "You tramp, you whore I will not sleep alone", And he drags her upstairs into the night. Not even after these days has she prayed That her blood wont always stain the floor, That her lifetime of hurt will have slayed. Or that she runs, freely, through open doors; Instead she walks with blood upon her frame To cook his special dinner once again.