Miss More


In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 09/05/2014 at 2:54 PM

“In the beginning it was perfect. Until the day it wasn’t.”

Domestic violence is something else that fascinates me. Why? I don’t know. I guess there’s something about love defined with violence that piques my interest. I remember very well that when I was about sixteen me and one of my good friends did manage to write a poem about domestic violence between us, it was called “STOP”, I only remember the first two lines.

Stop, with the terror and the violence

Stop, for I am slowly drowning in silence

This is for the girl trapped in a twisted dimension of love.




You wake up in a new day but your heart harbors old pain.

Quietly you drown in his twisted version of love. In the beginning it was perfect.

Red was the fire, the passion, the heat, of your love.

You never did like red. You preferred the neutral colours that helped you blend into the background; beige, ivory, grey, black. And then he happened. He rejuvenated you. He bought that poor girl plagued with insecurity out of the shadows and made her a woman in the sunshine. He was your sunshine. Happily, you basked.

Love is blind and unconditional. Until conditions change.

In the beginning it was perfect. Until the day it wasn’t.

Until the day he butchered your world and allowed his true colours to burst through. Until the day you realised that he put you on a pedestal only to tear down. Red was the colour of your blood as it gashed from the decorative lines on your leg. Purple are the pretty bruises now patterned on your back. Salty are the tears that burn your cheeks.

Salty are the tears that burn your soul.

You hate the mirror because it insists on showing you the pathetic creature that you have become.

Red is the colour of your love. In red you suffocate, watching your life slowly sink into nothing.

You wake up in a new day but your heart harbours old pain.


If this is you, know that you have the power to end it, the strength is somewhere within you, I need you to grab it as if it’s the edge of a cliff.

Until we meet again, Miss More.


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Average life of an average girl with larger than average dreams

I write stuff.

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