He was the love of her life,
She thought of him every hour of every day,
Her heart was his door mat
Her soul was his slave.
His sweet nothings were her everything,
His promises were her future,
When she gazed into his eyes she saw her life,
Her life was their life,
His life was his life.
Everything she did was for his pleasure,
Her body was his play field,
His love was her ocean.
He was her world
She was his whore.
What should have been absolute bliss
Became her nightmare.
With every punch her love died,
With every kick her future faded,
Her love became her prison.
Slowly she watches her life slip away,
The person she was
Was nothing compared,
To the shell she became.
A brave smile did she put for the world,
But inside the rose garden was dead,
Her bed of roses,
Was her bed of thorns.
A Poem by Thelma Migue.