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Niamh

Poetry

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Domestic Violence

When will you call?

When will you call?
When my body is cold in the ground,
or as I take my last breath?

It's dark and lonely in this place,
my thoughts shout and echo
whisper and sneer,
you're a burden
no one wants you here.

When will you call?
I have a knife in my hand,
the end is near.

I see the social media posts,
telling me you are there,
but a  phone call away,
you are waiting for me
to call in for tea.

When will you call?
you say you love me,
but I don't believe you.

I will not call you,
I cannot call anyone,
for this depression,
the darkness, the blackness
that holds me captive

will not allow me that solace,
it tells me over and over
that I am not good enough
not worthy of your love
of time in your busy life.

When will you call?
Knock on my door? 
Do you know it could save me?

In the dark

I hear steps behind me,

soft soled creeping slowly closer,

then dropping away

just like you did in our life

 

playing on my fears and emotions

a Chinese water torture

of anger and dread

denial and disbelief

 

even then I knew the truth

but hardly dared believe,

now I am moving on

breaking slowly free

but still your footsteps echo

 

long into the night

cutting into my sleep

a cry before dawn

 

©  Niamh Corcoran 31/1/2016

 

I am

The pellucid promise of a  sunny future

turns opaque in a mist of silence

and carefully timed thrusts

screams stuttered to a halt

by a look, a smirk, a knowing

that you’re caught as surely

as a noose around your neck,

the gold band you wore so proudly

the children you love so deeply

bind you to your jailer as he waltzes

upon a trap he believes unbreakable

humming a tune only he can hear

deaf to all but his own words, blinded

by his overgrown ego; he is safe

does not notice the subtle changes

that will break the walls trapping you

he has stolen your voice claims your

body as his own but not your soul nor

the strength of spirit that will set you

free

The Prize

when the price becomes too high

the knife edge seems sharper

the blade cuts deeper, each wound

bleeds brighter, longer

 

the noose tightens, suffocates

the world turns a nauseous

shade of blue, each breath stabs

even as it grasps

 

the lifeline dangles just out of reach,

held aloft by your raw and bitter

laughter, your foot on my throat

stamps and

 

blackness takes hold,

your apologies with your tears

fall like blood drops

to a sanitised floor

 

I watch through swollen eyes

as you are led away

between two policewomen

with well-practised ennui

 

a nurse fiddles with a drip

pats my hand in sympathy

tells me you will  cause

no more trouble

 

but I know better

you will chase me down

the prize is not in the having

but in never letting go.

 

© Niamh  20/01/2015

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