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
tonight, i feel like a bird’s nest covered with skin. broken, twisted little branches held together with bits of string and sticks and stems wound up tighter than necessary to protect the pieces of me that have yet to shatter