love may be poison wrapped up in ribbons, a slow suffocation of all that seemed shining, a promise of dark dreams stinging with terror, as violence lurks behind yesterday’s flowers
she is cut to the bone, with whispers and smiles. this is not love, this is raw, wicked power. it is rape, with soft words leaving torn, jagged wounds on the bright, bloody shards of the soul of his lover.
the shadow of fear, falls cold as the night as hearts search in darkness, for truth without lies.
go, or stay, but do not think that if you wait it might get better that the first time will be the last time, don’t excuse the violence, it is not just stress or job or no job or money or no money, an abuser will be abusive no matter the circumstance the sad truth is that once it starts, it will always, only, ever, get worse
when is it time to leave? when you realize that no one, not even god, will change him for you, when you no longer care about what you are leaving behind, when your children tell you that it’s time to go, it is
when you decide to leave, just do it don’t pack more than you need, don’t leave a note, don’t call your mother, don’t involve your friends, don’t waste time gathering things that you are not willing to die for and whatever you do, don’t go back, don’t ever go back, no matter how sorry he seems you must know that if you give him the chance the abuser will get even
smile frozen in place
she thinks that she is hiding her pain.
dancing on a wire
to a tune played by her leading man.
it is a frantic dance,
a carefully choreographed ballet.
any flat look of disappointment sends ice into her heart.
there is no end to the music
no breath between sets
she must anticipate each twirl and spin
for failure is unthinkable
and punishment is swift.
when finally she sleeps,
her dreams are wastelands.
sadly, she still hopes to please
to find what is lacking, repair the breach, and return to the fairy tale.
she does not yet understand
that fairy tales are horror stories
in the end.
suddenly the storm is me my emotions rage and tear the air like debris tossed about in a wild wind i will not be peaceful if it means dying with the words suffocated behind my lips i will not be a shadow any longer i must stand in the light even if it is a storm
each of us are only particles,
currently assembled into sentient beings
held together by friction and stubbornness,
for the moment, of our being-ness.
pulled all of my strings and tore at my heart
’till my particles burned with confusion and dread.
from a bundle of tangled, broken fragments
was only the beginning.
learning to live again,
to find my own being-ness
took all of my soul’s work
and many days, and nights
when my particles disassemble this time,
I look forward
to becoming rain
The concept of becoming rain is from The Art of Living by Thich Nhat Hanh
i was a battered wife briefly, until I became a prisoner. which is of course, the only way to tame a Shrew
the single unlovely, outspoken, prickly weed in his perfect garden of quiet, well behaved possessions
the prisoner, fortunately, will never become what she is not and the Shrew will finally, at long last notice a spark of light in the darkness, pull herself up by her roots, and her hair, charge headlong into the blinding white light of freedom and never look back. not ever.
your circumstance is not your fate it is a warning, not a curse. run for your life before you put down roots