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Vindica Te Tibi
She was a candle,
He was the fire,
His friends were the matchsticks
That lit his ego like a pyre.
Her skin was a canvas,
He was a maestro,
A canvas colored blue and black,
A temper like an active volcano.
A day was her birthday,
And the day was the 6th of October,
He would be at the bar nursing a beer,
Even though he told the pastor he was five years sober.
Yet still, she would await his return home,
He always wondered why,
He thought it was for financial security,
Then he saw the love in her swollen eyes.
He loves me, she said,
But is love supposed to hurt?
A new art piece every day,
Is that what they preach at your church?
Your place is the kitchen,
Utterly despicable,
It's modern-day slavery,
But the shackles are invisible.
© Myth
He was the fire,
His friends were the matchsticks
That lit his ego like a pyre.
Her skin was a canvas,
He was a maestro,
A canvas colored blue and black,
A temper like an active volcano.
A day was her birthday,
And the day was the 6th of October,
He would be at the bar nursing a beer,
Even though he told the pastor he was five years sober.
Yet still, she would await his return home,
He always wondered why,
He thought it was for financial security,
Then he saw the love in her swollen eyes.
He loves me, she said,
But is love supposed to hurt?
A new art piece every day,
Is that what they preach at your church?
Your place is the kitchen,
Utterly despicable,
It's modern-day slavery,
But the shackles are invisible.
© Myth
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