I'm just the story teller's wife
You come asking for him
You say you want a story
But he doesn't speak

I'm just the Preacher's wife
You come asking for him
Saying you want to become healed
But he isn't pure

I'm just the sheriff's wife
You come asking for him
You say you want him to save you
But he isn't a hero

We are just the wives
Of liars
Of abusers
You want to know where they are?

The story teller is in the ashes of his fire
The preacher is in the underground pit of hell






































The sheriff is behind the bars of his own cell
You want to know why?

The story teller got his stories from his many unwilling women
The preacher preached privately with little boys
The sheriff dug deep holes to bury his victims of hate and discrimination
So are you sure you want to ask them?

Yet you stand in front of three women
Who have bruises to hide their husbands' secrets
Quiet voices to speak no evil
And chains with no keys

Yet you say
That it was my fault
That I made him do the things he did
Because I wouldn't let him do it to me

Yet you say
That it was I who made
What happened happen
Because I didn't speak

Yet you say it was me
That my husband hated them
And had to kill them
Because I told him too

You have no idea what it was like
To be held down by your hair
Pinned and punched
And yelled at to not tell anyone

You think they were so great
Yet you only know half the story
Here are three battered women
Who know the whole story

We are:
The story
The pure
The hero

We are victims
We are alive