When I die,
She won't cry

Because for her,
Life is just a big word
She can't pronounce
Although,
They're just four letters
(2 consonants 2 vowels)
Together
A little word
Capable of
Making my bones ache

Because for her,
Life ain't a pain in the back
It ain't something
She's tired of

Infortunetly,
For me,
It is.

So when I'm gone,
Don't stay by my side
Waiting for me
To wake up

The worst thing about abuse
is not so much the guilt
of feeling you're to blame
that you should never
have been so attractive
so irresistible, so seductive
though in all other contexts
you felt anything but,
were filled with doubt
and lacked self confidence

No, the worst thing of all
is the way that when
it's repeated enough times
you get used to it, inured
then in time there's a part
of you comes to welcome
that expected familiarity
need it even, participate,
share the other's pleasure

But the rest of you
rails against this
taking of your autonomy
this removal of consent
and that part wages war
upon the part that
gives it's acquiescence
and you are fractured
hating your complicity
despise that you made it
in any part your fault

Yet to have healing
requires you recognise
the part of you
that went along
was no more to blame
than the part that didn't
it was just a coping strategy
you needed to survive
after all what else
could you have done?

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 18/10/13

I want to get lost somehow,
But I've never been found anyway.
I didn't have to want to get lost,
I just am.

I'm so sorry.

For avoiding you,
Ignoring you.

Feeling jealous
When you talk to other girls.
Yet not bothering
To make the first move.

When I do,
I'm sorry
If I appear clingy.

I'm not good enough for you.

But I wonder,

Does all this matter to you?

Sorry, for disturbing you.