She was young, she was free and she was whole
slivers of brilliance shone from her unfettered soul.
He drank from her radiant spirit; yet, his thirst was never quenched.
She became bone-weary, drained, wings tangled in his barbed wire fence.
Held the wire cutters in his right hand; should have set the fallen angel free.
Alas, his left hand was wrapped around the memory of what she used to be.
“Dead or alive,” he shouted into the night, “you are mine, you belong to me.”
She was drained, she was drained. ‘Twas not a whisper of resistance to be heard,
unless you counted her quiet tears, her anguished moans of pain so absurd.
His darkness disfigured a creature of sunshine and light,
but her prison was formed by her need to be loved by him each night.
Her own imperfections allowed her to be nothing and
her soft brown eyes gave out no telltale reflections.
It was her scars that bound her, forgiving, the elusive key.
She was content to wander aimlessly about his house each night
dreaming of the day that she would find the courage to set an angel free.
Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie 