You’re Still Dead Even If You’re Not Buried

• Louisa Langston, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2018

He comes home with lips stained red as he wine he drinks. Red as the wounds he rips wide open in me. Red like the door he slams closed, mocking me, screaming in joy with its telltale crash. Stay quiet, I whisper, because without the reminder I will scream. and my arms will be broken as the beating thump of my abused heart. Pounding like i am running for a marathon. I wish I was, instead of running for my life. He teaches me the lessons he watched his mother learn. To stay quiet. But still. I am not sure when I will be the next door he slams closed. It's like how every night your husband kisses you and so does mine. But. It's not kissing he does. Not unless people kiss with their fist. And when you lie awake with him by your side you feel warm. And loved. But when he lies over me. I bite my lip. And whisper stay quiet to stop my screams. And I have to curl up in his arms to try to feel the warmth he ripped from me. I am the cheap grape wine he spilt on the floor. There is no warmth for me. The ground is cold. And I am dirty. And disgusting. And ashamed.