The Living Dead (Domestic Abuse) Poem by Carolyn Brunelle

For some, the world is beauty;
Love fills their plate.
But to me, love is nothing
More than an exercise in pain;
A misery that makes a wasteland
Of my soul. Nothing remains
But this hole so empty
I cannot even flee my tormentor.
The world outside is hard you see;
In secret he takes that out on me.
Some surface wounds
Simply wait for tomorrow's
Light to become blaringly
Evident in bruises;
But there are other wounds
That cut profoundly deeper.
Dead eyes in the mirror don't lie.
Who I was, who I am, cannot deny
The stranger looking back that
Clearly has only one hope.
Lost in my world within a world;
I await my one saving grace,
My sweet angel of death
Come to free me from this place.