It wasn't her fault, but she carries a guilt as heavy as the bricks that make up the wall he slammed her against before breakfast. She ponders the irony as she beats his eggs and tosses away the empty shells. He leaves his plate on the table and hops in the rusty pickup that reeks of tobacco and his mistress's skanky perfume, takes it out to the job she knows he can't keep. It's been three weeks already, now it's only a matter of time. And as she sits with her girlfriends at the local cafe she wonders if they can see her as the broken, empty shell she is, with bruises as dark as the coffee they sip and meticulously placed scars on her wrists that peek out from under the tattered sleeve of her baggy sweatshirt - tally marks for how many times she's hit rock bottom after he's hit her after hitting the bottom of another glass of whiskey on the rocks. She hugs her friends tightly knowing it could be the last time, because with him there's always a next time and she's running out of room on her forearms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem