Look at you you poor ol' thing
does it hurt, do they sting,
is it love that paints your skin
that draws those colours from within.
Will you when he begs and pleads,
forgiveness sought on bended knees,
tell him that you understand
'twas fermented malt that raised his hand.
And of course you know he'll never again,
(until of course he does it again)
so the roses wrapped in week old news
will ease the pain of every bruise.
These fading 'til none there to see
unblemished skin, scarred memory,
fears shared with self, reflected back,
of when not if, his next attack