My Life In Word

The Woman on the Road

How many times the hammer fell,
she could not name, she could not tell.
The nights had blurred to one long bruise,
a life of wounds she did not choose.

The house stood black against the moon,
its windows watching her ruin.
Behind its walls, his curses crawled
like spiders through the darkened hall.

She fled without a stitch or shoe,
beneath a sky of midnight blue.
Blood traced rivers down her knees;
her breath came broken through the trees.

The road was cold beneath her feet,
each stone a tooth, each shadow deep.
The branches clawed her naked skin,
as though the night would pull her in.

She heard his footsteps though none came.
The wind kept whispering her name.
She saw his face in every tree,
his hands in every shadowed leaf.

When headlights found her in the rain,
she did not cry or speak her pain.
She stared beyond the mortal scene
at something no one else could see.


They wrapped her in a woolen sheet,
but could not warm her hands or feet.
Her body lived, her lungs drew breath,
yet part of her had married death.

She asked them if the walls could bleed,
if ghosts could plant a living seed.
She swore the moon had watched him rise
with ravens nesting in his eyes.

They said, “You’re safe,” but safety seemed
another word inside a dream.
For every door became his face,
and every room became that place.


Now in the glass she sees two forms:
one who escaped into the storm,
and one still kneeling on the floor,
who never reached the open door.

At night, she hears that lost self, cry
from somewhere neither dead nor alive.
And when dawn stains the heavens red,
she cannot tell which one has fled.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

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