Stranger

On the sofa in the living room,
With a chilled glass of Chianti in her hand,
With dinner aromas wafting in the air,
A stranger awaits your return.

A wide smile to mask the shadows in her eyes,
Soft hands diverting from the stone her heart's become,
Gently spoken words hiding the turmoil in her core,
While you, the lover, the friend, suspect nothing.

Her pillow is wet at five in the morning,
Her notebooks inked with loneliness and despair,
Her cheeks become hollow, her skin paper white,
But everything's fine, nothing's remiss.

She sits like a statue, her eyes far away,
Dreaming of love and redemption.
Her serene face fills you with desire,
And you take her, body and mind, while shredding the soul.

It's so hard to be alone, she says,
The fear becomes so big it overtakes the night.
There's no harm in what I do, she sighs,
It's not his fault, because happiness is a myth.

Hiding her face behind rigid composure,
It's hard to remember the last time she laughed,
Keeping away from warmth and connection,
Let us remember that she chose this life.

Are you abused, or are you the abuser,
With tongue forming a language of lies.
Sitting on plush cushions, sipping red wine,
Waiting for your lover, the stranger, to come.