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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The wounds domestic violence leaves in our lives,
In our emotions and physic
wounds that hardly heal...
Wounds that give birth to memories...

Submitted: January 29, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 29, 2017



I remember that day we took pieces of advice from the clergy,

Then later declared Mr and Mrs Amani in Frith Cathedral.

Not knowing my new name was going to be an antonym of the life I was going to live.

Having married a pickaxe...

A pickaxe that fixes nothing but ensures everthing is in pieces.

Today I no longer use my legs to walk,

Not because he bought me a car but a wheelchair...

Because he broke my bones too.

On the floor are pieces surrounding me,

Pieces of my broken heart,

A heart that God made and allowed feelings of love flow .

Pieces of glass plates,

Plates you hurled towards me ...

Claiming that the well spiced meat was tasteless.

Pieces of the thermos flask,

A flask I bought out of my little chama money.

Pieces of our glass table,

A table that was presented to us that day...

That day I was in a white gown,

Signifying purity and peace.

Do you remember?

They gave us the table and said we should live in peace,

Not knowing it was going to be used as weapon of disruption and end up in pieces.

Did I ever wrong you?

That you are revenging...

That I don't deserve peace.

You've broken everything...

But please allow me break your heart only.

© Copyright 2018 MagomaWrites. All rights reserved.

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