Her death wasn't entirely her choice,
says the fresh purple bruise
on her temple right above her left ear;
She was drunk before getting knocked out,
says the malodorous smell of her booze.
It was three days after her divorce,
says the marks on the calendar.
Someone was in the house,
says the muddy shoes’ trace on the floor;
It was a he,
says the size of the combat boots’ print.
He knocked her out before hang her,
says the invisible mark of the strangling.
And out he went with no rush,
says the perfect locked door.
They were once in love and married,
says the pictures on the night stand.
He was then a flawless husband,
says the diary of the woman
hidden in a secured drawer near her bed.
But then the darkness of the addiction took over,
says the medical record of his treatment.
He is her murderer,
says the report he filed in.