There were erratic outbursts
of rage and violence.
No bruises, but welts,
all the pain that was dealt
wasn’t as bad as what I felt.

There was depression
and parental inflicted
isolation,
a barren wasteland
of being forced to face
a life of submitting to
the beast hidden from the view
of everyone but me.

There was manipulations,
a parent taking
what sustained me,
that which helped
keep me from killing
every inch of my being,
of driving sharp things
into my skin
and letting all that is red
flow out from within.

There was years of
debasement,
and a parent
that blamed mistakes
on the figments
her religion created.

I wasn’t a bad kid.
I didn’t deserve it.

As an adult
I strive to be the essence of
compassion and kindness.

But I have no patience
for the parent
who did this,
and feel no obligation
to keep her around
or pursue a new relationship.
She can keep her distance,
and we can both go on living
our own separate lives.