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'I fell over'
It’s a funny sort of love.
Two black eyes and scrubbing at blood wearing rubber gloves.
Do you love her when you hit her
or is it just a sick game?
Because she’s your obedient punching bag who burns the dinner
and your skin hits hers like knuckles on hard leather.
I know you saw red
you just saw red
the red of her blood because your wedding ring cut open her face.
The swelling around her stomach
does it put you off?
Are you less likely to hold her down in the bedroom
if her scared eyes are pasted over with concealer to hide the shadows of your fists?
As she screams, does your throat burn
like the vodka you slammed a bottle of to force down the taste
of the terrified tears you slap from her face?
Her chapped lips break and crack when you kiss them
you can’t hold her close because her side is all bruised and
when she threatens for the police
will she accept your flowers?
Prop them up in a vase that’s dry of water
and watch them wilt in the evening sun.
She’ll chuck them in the bin with other dead flowers
and your laughs will turn into scowls.
So when she next burns the dinner
you had cheap tequila with your mates because one of them’s come up a winner
on the bets but the odds are that your wife isn’t going to be so lucky
when you slam her against that wall
and push her down that flight of stairs
when that glass breaks over her head
and she slumps over because she’s dea-
she won’t be there to say “I fell over.”
