Glass Shoes

Warning: This is a view of domestic abuse.

For little Cinders,

The beaten wife

Of Mr. Right,

Who scrubs all day

And cries all night.

 

For the blushing bride,

The forever more

Of the boy next door,

Who plays happy homes

But is called a w***e.

 

For the innocent virgin,

The beautiful name

In their newest game,

Who dirties each day

While men enjoy her shame.

 

For the painters muse,

The stolen child

Of a cheating paedophile,

She spreads her legs

But thinks he's vile.

 

For all the women,

Who find the comfort they seek

When they come to meet,

With sore red fingers

And swollen feet.

 

For all the girls:

Cinders, the bride

The virgin, the muse,

Who can free their feet

From their broken glass shoes.