The Painting

I see the image in my mind's eye.
And put it onto the clean canvas.
My pencil strokes mark the outlines,
Keep the perspective true.
The portrait is for my friend.
She is naked in her vulnerability .
I place her chicken arms into a boxer's pose.
Her skinny leg is placed on the head of her assailant.
Her gaze penetrating and her hair crazy-free.
In contrast my friends self-portrait is dark.
Her cyclops eye is staring in disbelief,
Her body compartmentalised into broken pieces.
This is how she is now.
My portrait,
Is how I want her to be.

Broken

The brave face is a charade.
Quick step with resolve.
Dark sunglasses, tight jaw.
Not waiting for the change at the checkout.
Shaking hands, and trembling lip.
Three inches deep,
Instant coffee shaken into her cup.
And a packet of cigarettes,
Burnt into smoke rings,
Go up her nose.

He has broken her.

Abuse

It can be so subtle,
And the outside observer may not pick it.
They see the charm, politeness,
And nothing is too much trouble.
The trying too hard,
Immodestly feigning modesty
All hallmarks of  insecurity,
So easily overlooked.
The lovely family,
And such a nice guy.
His kids seem a little shy though.

But then there is the fuse,
So short.
The sudden blast,
When the pressure of the performance,
And the lack of power to completely control the situation,
 Is too much.
And over such a little thing.
Speculate what may happen when the 'thing',
Is not so little.