You

came in,
strolled around in your muddy boots.
I made you coffee at your request, you
dropped the cup.
The shards of my late mother's china cut me as I clear up,
You told me not to be so clumsy.
You scowled as I produced dinner,
You don't like mashed potato,
I should have remembered.
I let you push me upstairs,
your arms holding me tight,
whispering filthy things, slapping my arse and thighs,
too hard.
Your shed your dirty work
clothes on my floor
before ripping my pale lace dress.
I tell you what you want to hear
as you grab and squeeze, marking my body.
You purposely come on the sheets,
on my side of the bed
and collapse on me.
Heavy,
sweaty.
You bite my neck before you slide away,
satisfied.
I remain where you left me,
waiting to hear the door slam.
I look in the mirror at my face,
drained of colour, black trails from my eyes.
Where you bit me a dark angry bruise
resides.

As you leave
you tred on the colourful flowers
breaking their slender necks.