Obvious

"Look at me," she says,

ink dripping from the pen like

blood from a wound.

Across the paper winds the story,

and her anger rages like the

sea in tempest.

She cannot say it to him.

No.

To utter the truth would be

to render her vulnerable.

Defensless as a chick

fallen from the nest.

But she writes the hateful words

and waits for him to read

the pain that binds her bones

like tiny sinews.

If she can just write it,

they will see her

they will know.

If she can just paint the words

he will see the truth and change

this hateful episode forgotten

in the wash of relief.

But dawn comes

and still he cannot read

the words that she

cannot say to him.

Nothing changes.

She drowns in the silence.

Cowardice struggles on.