The House

The house is silent.

Not a whisper or sound,

As if it’s not weighed down by violent


Nights, muffled shrieks and sobs barely drowned

Out by coarse and callous hands

Forcing mouths shut so the truth would never be found.


A scratchy voice shouting its lewd commands

And the house calmly breathing in and out

While we scramble to meet the voice’s demands.


No one hears as we scream and shout

Till our throat is raw

And then our punishment – I see stars; blood; your face; blackout.


Waking up I knew I never had a choice

Because when I’d fight you, you used to tell me I was brave.

And in these meagre morsels of appreciation I used to rejoice.


I guess there never was much of me left to save

You had already turned me into a subservient slave.

Even before I entered this house, my grave,

It already had a tombstone with my name engraved.


Image – ElissaS83 on Wikimedia Commons with License.

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