What the Moon Forgot Part 2

The first time he hit her,

the moon turned its face away.

She stood in the kitchen,

barefoot on cold tile,

one hand pressed to her cheek

like she could hold the pain if she wanted to.

Outside, the world kept spinning.

The kettle boiled over.

A car passed by, headlights flashing

through the window,

but no one stopped.

Later, he brought her flowers.

White lilies, like it was her funeral.

He kissed her bruised temple,

said, “Baby, you know I’d never hurt you.”

And she nodded in disbelief.

Because she knew the script.

Because she knew the moon

had already forgotten her.