The Wife Game

Our house is where you cultivated me,

like a new bud growing in a garden.

Laid to waste on a bed of thorns,

you pruned my individuality.

The years swelled up inside of me,

a bulge without name and voice.

A lady in public you requested of me,

never to question, or given a choice.

I relinquished my job to stay at home

to wash your filthy work clothes.

I raised three children, you went out,

night after night with the boys.

I bit my lip and felt it bleed

when mom said you looked too lean.

To dull the pain I tuned her out,

and continued to cook and clean.

I’ve lived inside your dollhouse,

with everything in its space.

Our bedroom now betrays me,

just a whore kept in her place.

I’ve played this game for years now,

just a token on the board of life.

Can’t pass go and the prize I win,

is the bittersweet gift of sacrifice.