The Nettle

The bottle gleamed, a wicked eye, Reflecting rage beneath the sky. He'd drink his sorrow, drown his pain, But leave a wreckage in his wake. Her cries would echo, sharp and thin, A symphony of fear within. The child, a shadow, watched it all, The shattered glass, the deafening brawl. Each slam, each bruise, a searing brand, A memory etched upon her hand. The love she craved, a twisted vine, Choked by the terror, dark and fine. Years passed, the wounds began to mend, But scars remained, a constant friend. She found a love, a gentle hand, But shadows danced across the land. The first drink poured, the fear awoke, A chilling tremor, deep and broke. The playful jest, the loving gaze, Replaced by anger's fiery haze. The past revived, a haunting ghost, Each clinking glass, a heavy cost. She fled the room, the echoes near, Of drunken rage and bitter tear. The love she sought, a fragile bloom, Wilted beneath the fear's dark gloom. A victim twice, her spirit torn, By echoes of a life forlorn.