why always this sleepy
smile, this blue of your dress
hooking into an impersonation
of women you'd like to
this sharp slapping of
upstairs whenever he's angry
and screaming,
the murmurs you give back
in return,
and the silence of your
body as she wounded
struggles up into a monotone

good wife presentation,
hide the liqueur before he's home
so he'll change direction, spin
out at bars and hit
someone else instead

this life, and all the things
you wish you learnt

spend hours wishing
you were the girl on tv
then remember its 8pm already
and haven't prepared
supper yet