My past is a plague of pain
shadows that bruise
memories that leave
red marks,
but the isolation
was probably the worse.

I mastered pain
at a young age.
I could take a beating
better than anyone
I knew.

The trick was to let her
hurt me just enough;
resist just enough
then give her
A teary show.
Submitting
to her rage
because resistance
just fueled her
violent tendencies.

But when the beatings stopped
when she got caught
I became a prisoner
locked away
shriveled
A withering shade.

A child
looking at a world
that did not miss me
longing
for the freedom
that waited
just on the other side
of death.

Crying,
cringing,
flinching,
wishing,
At ten years old
that I was dead.
I am not.
Somehow,
I smile.
I go on
taking my pain
and turning it
inwards to introspection
and outwards to compassion.
I think there for I plan
to be a better man
and in moments of clarity
I know that I am.

But sometimes
when I go back
slipping on wet stones
slick with my old
suicide pain
when I let the memories
the regrets, and fears
take me again
there is that blade of pain
waiting
whispering
“**** yourself you worthless
*******”