Now you lay tied up in your matrimonial bed,
just like your honeymoon,
This time she doesn’t have her head between your legs,
her tongue circling your head,
instead she stands over you with the bottle of vodka and a lighter,
her short cropped hair stand at attention like the unwilling audience in this love story gone sour,
her gray eyes shine with a hint of madness.
You plead with her but of course you are just babbling,
your voice had been done away with, with the hot oil she had shoved down your throat.
Maybe she went an extra mile,
but what does one do when she becomes a slave in her own home.
She takes a sip of the vodka and without a second thought throws it over you adds just a little fire. She burnt it all to the ground, your lives, your love, the pain, the tears
And of course your two beautiful children.