Wannabe Runaway

Her bedroom floor is covered

A wasteland

Of crumpled bus tickets

And train timetables.

Not a patch of carpet to be seen.

She sits on her bed

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Waiting for him to barge

Through the door.

His bloodshot eyes

And dark stubble scare her

As he staggers over to her side.

He raises a hand to stroke her face

But she moves away

So he slaps her instead.

She knows what's coming now.

He'll have his way and leave her

Shattered and broken once more.

Next time, she vows

As she always does

Next time, I won't get caught.