The Cockney Wife

Nobody I know – honestly…

Always the same strife
like a knife through butter.
That cut, her tongue makes,
in my often lacerate soul.

My God,it’s not pain.
It’s the sameness.
Things best left unsaid;
opting for harmony instead.

And yet I respond in kind,
mindful of her brittle values.
I’ll use any subterfuge
to outmanoeuvre spite.

Night brings a well-worn armistice.
The sorry statement, made up.
Descending apathy, slipping on lip service
Cold comfort in a warm embrace.