Part One;
There on the concrete floor
I continuously bled
I should have fled
Said the critic in my head.
His hands could be so painful
But I missed them when they were playful
He played all the right cords
Before transforming into bitter rods.
The lips his own munched on
Constantly indicated being punched on
Black eyes were on default
But it was always the window's fault.
Scars fought over the limited space
Here on my battered face
Everything in my being ached
From all the smiles I effortlessly faked.
So there on the concrete floor
I fought my last inner war
At dawn I unpacked myself
Out of his dark shelves.
By ClkerFreeVectorImages from Pixabay.
Part Two;
How it all feels so unrealistic
That there's no longer need to panic
That some angry entitled hands
Get to ever fucking land
On this melanin flawlessness.
I wish someone could please address
The one I think of less
Lesser than anything close to a man
As he is nothing but a violent beast
If I were to say the very least.
He should know that I fought hard
To rebuild the woman he dismembered
In ways too painful to be remembered
Yet too real to be forgotten
Wondering how can a soul be as rotten.
Oh how tedious it was
To have crawl back to my throne
As I could only journey alone
Back to the strangest familiarity
Faraway lands ruled by my clarity.
By Pixel2013 from Pixabay.
Have a history with domestic violence and I rarely write/talk much about it. When these pieces came calling, I had to give in as it rarely happens. It's a difficult place to draw inspiration or to ask anything else of as I usually leave it be. I hope they make sense to you as a reader.
Cross Published.
BQ.