born of righteous, proper love,

raised to emerge as a dove.

her truest self tucked down below,

he hates her and he doesn’t know.

the blade plunged deeper into skin,

she didn’t know she would give in.

a hollow vessel, she is so,

an empty glass of fine merlot.

living a life he would deride

he’d yell, and hurt, and scorn, and chide.

for him, she travels veiled and cloaked,

he hates her, but he doesn’t know.

from fire, floods, and famine saved,

by her majesty. and her, she craved.

her life, she protects with her own.

she saved her, but she doesn’t know.

she whispers sweetly in her ear,

she tells her nought is left to fear,

she makes her feel she’s not alone,

by toil and treason, she is betrothed.

she holds her tightly to her breast,

each inch of skin, with lips, caressed.

each day, sentiments only grow,

he hates her, and still doesn’t know.

through the vein, surges the rage,

he’s capable of so much pain.

to tell him is further than she’ll go,

she’ll find a way to make him know.

the knife, discarded on the floor;

the blood seeping from beneath the door,

but, somehow the resentment grew,

he hated her, but he never knew.

-maya lynn