cw: ****** assault, assault, abuse, slurs, chronic pain
It began with
you doing his laundry,
shouting back at him,
“Not an ounce of romanticism!”
Swears follow after
beneath your breath.
I stand
in the same hallway
watching your shadow
stretch through the doorframe
of the laundry room,
water gushing from the machine
into a
cacophonous
roar.
I wait,
but I remain
unnoticed
as you turn, legs bare,
and go into the bedroom.
I return to my own bedroom,
separated by the
war zones of the
empty pantry and cluttered den—
unpaid bills lay
strewn around,
the stuff he brought in from
when he first ruined our lives
sitting,
watching,
collecting
dust.
Lottery tickets
with their surfaces scratched away
and forgotten, just like
your dreamscapes.
I pause,
thirsty.
I dare to
step outside,
but I stop
when I hear your moans.
I’ve had enough experience to
after a few seconds
deduce if
the moans
are from
forced *** or chronic pain.
He laughs.
It’s the former this time.
I pause,
shaking.
Does it not
infuriate you
like how it does
to me?
You’re my mother,
and I’m your daughter.
He’s your boyfriend,
and he’s both of our assaulters, abusers.
When you first asked me
if I was okay with you
finding me a “new dad,”
you never asked me if it was okay if he
It’s just been
“One more month,
one more month,”
for years.
I’m so tired of your
performative screams
because we both know from experience
if you don’t scream well enough,
he’ll
beat you
and seek me
instead.
People from outside
said you're supposed to teach me
to be a woman
instead of a ****
But I am instead
left alone,
asking,
"Does my mom still love me?"
What a romantic play you've put on--
to manage to fool
those who love you the most
certainly isn't easy.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:09 AM UTC
cw: ****** assault, assault, abuse, slurs, chronic pain
It began with
you doing his laundry,
shouting back at him,
“Not an ounce of romanticism!”
Swears follow after
beneath your breath.
I stand
in the same hallway
watching your shadow
stretch through the doorframe
of the laundry room,
water gushing from the machine
into a
cacophonous
roar.
I wait,
but I remain
unnoticed
as you turn, legs bare,
and go into the bedroom.
I return to my own bedroom,
separated by the
war zones of the
empty pantry and cluttered den—
unpaid bills lay
strewn around,
the stuff he brought in from
when he first ruined our lives
sitting,
watching,
collecting
dust.
Lottery tickets
with their surfaces scratched away
and forgotten, just like
your dreamscapes.
I pause,
thirsty.
I dare to
step outside,
but I stop
when I hear your moans.
I’ve had enough experience to
after a few seconds
deduce if
the moans
are from
forced *** or chronic pain.
He laughs.
It’s the former this time.
I pause,
shaking.
Does it not
infuriate you
like how it does
to me?
You’re my mother,
and I’m your daughter.
He’s your boyfriend,
and he’s both of our assaulters, abusers.
When you first asked me
if I was okay with you
finding me a “new dad,”
you never asked me if it was okay if he
It’s just been
“One more month,
one more month,”
for years.
I’m so tired of your
performative screams
because we both know from experience
if you don’t scream well enough,
he’ll
beat you
and seek me
instead.
People from outside
said you're supposed to teach me
to be a woman
instead of a ****
But I am instead
left alone,
asking,
"Does my mom still love me?"
What a romantic play you've put on--
to manage to fool
those who love you the most
certainly isn't easy.