by Sandi Keaton-Wilson


shades of twilight sky,
shine underneath her eyes,
no lie or makeup can hide.
Her screams, her dreams
are a daily nightmare of pain;
words make wounds
that take even longer to heal.
The sad truth is all too real.
He was once sweet,
whispered sentiments her heart
craved to hear, before
fear and dread lead her here.
“Just leave,” others urge,
as though it were that easy
to walk out to freedom
while enduring isolation
and depravation,
terrifying threats against
her babies, their lives, hers.
Fists, fights, no chance for flight,
then eloquent apologies
and elementary promises.
Bouquets of joy
replaced by
poison ivy.