She keeps a secret.

Through all of the beatings,
All of the wounds,
Even the merciless pain.

She keeps a secret.


Some call her a sinner
Because she’s suffered through his pain.

The night’s tainted by whiskey,
Poisoned with her blood,
Only to be washed away with rain.
Forgotten, she cries.

On the floor—
Bleeding inside.

With every move she’s careful to look,

Checking closely to see he’s gone from his nook,
No doubt smuggling—a crook.


She gathers her clothes,


A ticket bought with stashed cash,


A small purse with enough money to eat,
And then she grabs a jug—Gasoline.
She pours it over the bed,
The table,
Everything.
Striking a match, she quickly leaves.

Walking down the road,
The house in flames,
She’s finally escaped his lies,

Escaped his games.


As she boards a bus


To some distinct part of nowhere,
She sits by the window and looks at her future.


No more blood—no more pain.
And then it begins to rain.




People stare, knowing she’s keeping a secret.
And they’re right.



If he’d known, he would have made her a tomb.




For she carries a secret—





In her womb.