Every night I arrive to my birthplace and all is orderly,Everyone is cheerful, whimsical and present, After a callous days work, an ouzo and coke would go down a treat, He sits in his throne with the wreak of arrogance on his breath, She waits idly to remind him of his worthlessness, But not yet, We have plenty to discuss, We must to wait for that familiar red button to appear, Slowly the pungent smell of aniseed chokes the room, Along with the gloom between these two lovers, She snaps words that bruise his inner core, She sees that it hurts and sharpens her daggers, He is waiting to release the cursed monstrosity that is so reminiscent of times past, Voices raise and the verbal swords are whipping through wounds that have never healed, At least not for tonight, He leaves his thrown for two reasons, One to quench his thirst for numbness, And the other to show that misused martial arts can further sustain an ego, I sit in my room listening to the cries that could wake the dead, The thud of drunkin footsteps thunder down the hallway towards my room, I hear his voice, he has left the thrown, The bedroom door slams, It is not mine, I wish it wasn't next to my room, I hear him hit her over and over again, Slamming her against walls so hard that the house shook, I want to do something but at eleven years old I was so frightened, The supposed saviour didn't do anything as their restraining orders were like jokes, But no-one seemed to laugh. He leaves his pool of guilt and makes a booking the usual motel, And I go to sleep to the sound of my mother sobbing into the night, The next day at school I spoke not a word of my experience, They wouldn't understand, My teachers already labelled me the day I walked through the gates.