When she closed her daughters bedroom door, the stanch smell of alcohol, which he drank entirely to much stinged her nose hairs as the faint smell of sweat and hard-work bombarded her. She saw a dark silhouette of a heavy-duty male. Who's heart didn't compare to the size of his foot. There was always beer in the fridge, cigarette smoke in her hair, or crumbs on the couch. My love for him is like a wilting rose. As he once kissed my bruises, he now causes them. He still buys me makeup, particulary foundation.. Just to cover up the "black and blues". As he once caressed the bones in my fragile back. His fist has met every curve and angle only to be broken. His palm identifies the wrinkled worries on my cheeck. I once longed for his kiss, but now I only run from it. It smells of lingering tobacco and antique alcohol. He pulled out a knife that particular night that she knew all to well.. Maybe she should've pulled the trigger last night. Or took those 37 pills instead of 3. Out of her pain and misery and all of her pain put her in such a place, she can't even explain.