He was always yelling,
And was never quiet.
I feared what he would do,
If I spoke above a whisper.
I should've gotten out,
Before the first bruise was thought of.
I knew from the looks of him,
That he would be that type.
His excuse was that
My skin looked so pretty
When it was covered in his bruises.
He says my knees have a beautiful purple color,
And that it will never go away,
For I will always be his puppet.
