A fistful of flowers

 

Past the place selling bouquets

of wilted apologies.

His bruised knuckles

hold them tight, with no tenderness.

Like the claw marks

he left over her breast.

The hole in the wall

from where his anger

connected with the plaster.

And it all fell apart

like cheap toilet paper.

 

She slumps in her bedsit dump,

whilst he crumples up like a crisp packet,

in the only pub where his name isn’t dirt,

where his name isn’t mud.

Holds a pint of regret to his lips.

and sips, then gulps, then pours out

his warped thoughts for all to hear.

 

She should leave.

Her friends tell her so

           But her gaslit brain

           Believes he will grow,

And anyway,

where could she go?

She pours another glass of delusion

from the bottle sitting half empty.

Tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow.

Sorrowful sips follow.

and she drifts into fitful sleep

Feeling weak. Feeling hollow. 

 

He sits, six pints in.

Anger barges regret to the ground,

whilst the drink is bargaining

with his soul and winning.

Angry clouds smother his brain

like a stormy sky hiding his true pain,

the scared boy that can’t believe

in a silver lining.

For just a sliver of a second

A hint of kindness lingers

somewhere behind the lightning.

As he reflects on the past

Staring back at him from

the bottom of his glass.

But the image cracks

as the glass falls to the          

ground with a crash.

 

She awakens with a start

Another bad dream,

another muffled scream.

Washes clean the dried-on tears

and sees the pain for the first time.

The drained life flatlining in her eyes,

the smile lines now only used to sigh.

The cracks around her eyes

from the countless times she’s cried.

She says no more. This was the last time.

She picks up the phone and calls 999,

“I’d like to report a crime.”

 

And into the night he staggers.

Angry at the world

for all he has ever done.

Bouquet floating in the gutter

to become more universal clutter

in the freezing rain.

The blue lights outside his house

startle his eyes.

And with no remorse

He lies and lies. Blaming her,

blaming the world, blaming everyone

but the one true perpetrator of any crime.

The handcuffs chafe his wrists.

His bruised knuckles, like his bruised ego,

show only guilt.