I’m not living anymore.
I don’t act, I react.
I’m stuck in this.
But he gets to act,
And throw his fits,
And decide the facts.
He burns us down.
He doesn’t just act.
He acts out.
He paves the way to hell
Shoves my soul to its end.
Fragments lost in his pit,
Wounds that I’m left to mend.
I’m responsible for
My safety, his sanity.
His hands ensured the bind,
Tied them inexplicably.
If there’s a grievance,
A desire unmet,
An inconvenience,
Or a mind not read,
It’s my safety on the line.
He’s instability personified.
My true definition,
By his recognition:
Satan.
Crazy.
A poison.
A baby.
He tells me, grow up,
And shut the fuck up.
And I’m to blame,
Or so he says:
I am the illness
Inside of his head.
He can’t regulate.
Clearly I’m to blame.
Abuse? His rage?
My fault. My weight.
I never caused this.
There is an illness
That lives in our heads,
His is rage.
Mine is dread.
And the trauma in me,
The illness in my head,
Was placed there directly
By his rage-fueled hands.
He calls me Satan.
Yet he’s the one
Who dragged me to hell,
Ripped me apart
Because I breathed wrong.
And now,
I can’t breathe at all