His throat will hurt when he wakes up.
Though not as much as her arm,
grasped to tightly, her cheek, slapped to hard.
The small of her back, those bruises
matching up to the sharp edge,
of the murderous counters in the kitchen.
By noon or one o'clock, he'll have called,
placed his order for dinner,
offered his different appology.
slung that silken lasso out,
to reel her back in again.
The half hearted suitcases
will be unpacked by five.
Hope springs eternal,
dull and cruel.
All over the world this morning,
women asses the damage,
take inventory , survey,
their chances of escape.
They weigh the horror of homlessness
against the horror comforts of their home.
I got flowers today.
It wasn't my birthday
or any other special day.
We had our first argument last night,
And he said a lot of cruel things
that really hurt me.
I know he is sorry
and didn't mean the things he said.
Because he sent me flowers today.
I got flowers today.
It wasn't our anniversary,
or any other special day.
Last night, he threw me into a wall
and started to choke me.
It seemed like a nightmare.
I couldn't believe it was real.
I woke up this morning sore and
bruised all over.
I know he must be sorry,
Because he sent me flowers today.
I got flowers today,
and it wasn't Mother's Day
or any other special day.
Last night, he beat me up again.
And it was much worse
than all the other times.
If I leave him, what will I do?
How will I take care of my kids?
What about money?
I'm afraid of him and scared to leave.
But I know he must be sorry
Because he sent me flowers today.
I got flowers today.
Today was a very special day.
It was the day of my funeral.
Last night, he finally killed me.
He beat me to death.
If only I had gathered enough courage
and strength to leave him,
I would not have gotten flowers today.
