Our Mortal Coil

She was a coil.

My eyebrows were shattered violin strings,

furrowed.

Trapping my eyes as they darted,

scanning the room.

It had been a bedroom, with blinds freshly sprayed,

and sheets dank with the musk of sex and sleep.

Now it was a courtroom.

Against the peeling wall, the judge passed sentence.

She was a coil.

Gavel knocked against bone and sheets, furtively spread;

the lines of a panty indented its testimony.

She was wearing lipstick.

I hated lipstick, it smeared on her face.

Her hair was a mess for fingers and sweat.

The robe was torn. My fingers curled instinctively,

and she flinched.

She was a coil, folding and contracting under private pressures.

In trial she curls, reserving her tears,

orgasmic she spreads, unfurling her fears.

Author's Note

This is a piece of fiction, and does not reflect my views on domestic abuse.