Bruised

Every morning I awake
I'm walking on eggshells,
afraid I might stir or shake
another one of your spells.

If I look at you a certain way,
say something to which you don't agree
will there be words of anger to say,
or will you just bruise me?

The colors of my bruises
will never fade,
the one that abuses
has never paid.

He beat me until I was broke,
repeatedly without shame,
but never have I spoke
badly of his name.

Many times he used force
to make me do unthinkable things,
never has he shown remorse
for my scars and stings.

He needs to be in control
to feel like a man.
His words pierce my soul
with his every demand.

I am just his slave,
trodden and sore.
Because I didn't behave
he called me a whore.

Only hatred is born
inside his bitter head,
but I have always sworn
to leave my troubles unsaid.