Bruised

Tell tale signs
First glance is in the eyes
As always, the fist ready to leave a mark
The hands,willing to toss you out in the dark
Oh! the tongue, ever ready to hit below the belt
Like ice you start to melt
Sinking deeper into the gloom, you become a welt
The bond of attachment pulls you in, and its a walk over
With no where to hide or take cover
Stripping you off every priceless jewel, you are left unclad
Made to be the punching bag for the skill you never knew he had.
You could be given an award for honing your story telling ability in short notice
Making excuses for your absence at gathering,
You could be likened to a novice
You suddenly become the nun
Your friends you gladly shun.
Starting to wonder if there is any truth behind the saying
hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!