Living On Tenterhooks
How has this become her life
She stops to listen as she hears the key slot into the front door,
Hands wet as she pauses with a wet dish in her hand,
Listening carefully, trying to determine his mood,
Did he have a good day, or did it not go to plan?
***
Her heart beats faster as she hears the squeal of the door hinges,
She turns to face the doorway, listening to his tread,
Are they stamping down the hallway? Or softly trodden?
She waits on tenterhooks, this time of the day one she’s learned to dread.
***
Her breath catches in her throat as he steadily nears,
And as he rounds the corner she wears a tentative smile,
Waiting, anticipating, nervously anxious,
As her stomachs acid rises and she tastes her own bile.
***
She expels a gasp of relief as she sees his face for the first time,
He looks relaxed, a large grin stretches across his lips,
She hurries to the refrigerator and grabs a cold can of beer,
Smiling graciously as she hands it to him and he thankfully takes a sip.
***
But then suddenly the can is sailing across the length of the room,
Beer swirling upon the walls, the floor and dripping from her hair,
He slaps her across the cheek with an open palmed hand,
And she falls to the floor, curls into a ball and gasps for air.
***
She sobs as a foot lands across her aching ribs,
Hearing a bone crack, not a first for her at all,
She sobs quietly in desperation, knowing this could go on for hours,
As she attempts to draw herself in and make herself small.
***
He begins to yell and scream about her uselessness,
How she can never do right,
Each roar backed up with a carefully placed punch,
While she cowers away from the fight.
***
She can now smell the alcohol on his breath,
The stench of the last few hours drowning his sorrow,
She lays still, praying, sobbing, waiting,
Wishing for today to end quickly and a better day tomorrow.
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****
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (8)
I haré people that do that. Very sad.
Saddens my soul that this goes on across the globe every day. Shameful and inexcusable. Thanks for shedding some light.
Shocking and rage-inducing and you're right. Too many women suffer in silence.
I freaking hate him! Makes my blood boil! Useless piece of shit! So glad you wrote this my friend!
Give an insight. VERY SAD SITUATION 😢😔
Pathetic but well written 📝 ✨💖👍😉💯
Too accurate. Tragic beautifully composed too well , my angers rises and I want to hunt the predators. 🥰
I am at a loss for me to complete a full sentence of thought. So I will use single words. Powerful, emotional. tragic, heartache, and (yes) anger. Well writen.