Frightened, petrified, in fact, but this window told entirely the wrong story
It painted her as a happy-go-lucky mother, one steeped in colourful glory
Cooking the kids their dinner while cleaning the house
I don’t know, getting to listen to the mighty singer Josh Rouse on the radio, perhaps?
Little did people know that she had to be as quiet as a mouse as soon as her husband turned up, an all too abusive pup
To say the very least, keeping her prisoner inside of her own house
He had some clout, that’s for sure, things turning sour, dour as soon as he put a ring on that finger, and now all he ever did in between working hours was linger uncontrollably, writing for her the wrong kind of story altogether
In the most unfashionable way possible, a monster who spoke pure dross
Everywhere she turned she was met with the loss of a proper life, carving-knife in hand, all too tempted to put paid to this, slice the insides, slide on out of this harassed life
She must think of those kids
I imagine this, a time far more able for her, one where she could meet her potential, welcome a stable existence, if only she were given the chance
One such night, I moved closer to her window and oh so slowly placed out my hand

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