It’s all an illusion.
In front of vibrant lights
she stands
draped in ruby satin,
swaying
her hips elegantly,
confining
her own hands behind
her back.
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
Don’t slouch.
He clenches
her wrists
holding them hostage,
whispering threats
of another meeting
between his fist
and her bone.
I own
your body.
Get that straight,
bitch.
You’re
nothing
without me.
This,
surely,
you can admit.
Away from the lights,
behind the curtain,
she falls;
beaten and slapped
until unconscious defeat.
He blames her drink
when help arrives,
she stumbled and fell,
no fault of mine.
Dark purple rings
sag
under her eyes,
twelve ribs
protrude
her lifeless skin–
just add some power,
it’ll be fine.
Surely she’s not the girl
we once knew.
Perhaps we should admire
someone else,
someone new.
But she forces a smile;
not convincing enough
to impress
her captive–
she’s never good enough.
Yet still she stands
both elegant
and poised.
It’s a beautiful
nightmare, really.
But hey,
that’s showbiz.
