It’s all an illusion.

In front of vibrant lights

she stands

draped in ruby satin,

swaying

her hips elegantly,

confining

her own hands behind

her back.

Shoulders back.

Chin up.

Don’t slouch.

He clenches

her wrists

holding them hostage,

whispering threats

of another meeting

between his fist

and her bone.

I own

your body.

Get that straight,

bitch.

You’re

nothing

without me.

This,

surely,

you can admit.

Away from the lights,

behind the curtain,

she falls;

beaten and slapped

until unconscious defeat.

He blames her drink

when help arrives,

she stumbled and fell,

no fault of mine.

Dark purple rings

sag

under her eyes,

twelve ribs

protrude

her lifeless skin–

just add some power,

it’ll be fine.

Surely she’s not the girl

we once knew.

Perhaps we should admire

someone else,

someone new.

But she forces a smile;

not convincing enough

to impress

her captive–

she’s never good enough.

Yet still she stands

both elegant

and poised.

It’s a beautiful

nightmare, really.

But hey,

that’s showbiz.