Blood on the Sofa

Faraway sirens signal the start
of questions 'til midnight, affairs of the heart.
What was the reason, what did he say?
What did you do to make him act that way?

How can I tell them I simply forgot
to wash his best shirt, or his tea was too hot.
When I can't understand, do I tell them the truth?
He accused me of sleeping around with no proof.

They ask, was he drinking, did he get drunk tonight,
does he take any drugs and how long was the fight?
I don't know if I answer, I don't care anymore.
I can see the red mark where my head hit the door.

I no longer feel the hot tears on my face,
My heart is consumed with fear and disgrace.
Again I say that this is the last time.
But there's blood on the sofa and I know that it's mine.

Cheryl Walker