He makes lies sound like veracities,
and deceit feel like love.
He whispers that he loves me,
and I tell myself,
at least he doesn’t hit me.
His hand strikes the wall
as he mutters he wishes
the blow could land on me
(“Gosh Sarah, YOU make me just want to hit you sometimes.”)
I cover the hollow
with wallpaper patterned in lilies and vines.
I love lilies for their boldness and strength,
qualities I don’t see in myself.
I am indecorous, indecisive.
I’m quick to tears.
I don’t skim emotions
I sink into them.
He’s always told me I’m too sensitive.
“Buck up, buttercup.”
I wanted to be soft.
I needed to be held so gently
I melted into a puddle;
to cry for no reason
on a shoulder of acceptance.
Instead,
I put my emotions down.
I let his hand slide
down my back,
to my waist,
to my ***
I become the good wife
I’m told I need to be.
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 5:38 PM UTC
He makes lies sound like veracities,
and deceit feel like love.
He whispers that he loves me,
and I tell myself,
at least he doesn’t hit me.
His hand strikes the wall
as he mutters he wishes
the blow could land on me
(“Gosh Sarah, YOU make me just want to hit you sometimes.”)
I cover the hollow
with wallpaper patterned in lilies and vines.
I love lilies for their boldness and strength,
qualities I don’t see in myself.
I am indecorous, indecisive.
I’m quick to tears.
I don’t skim emotions
I sink into them.
He’s always told me I’m too sensitive.
“Buck up, buttercup.”
I wanted to be soft.
I needed to be held so gently
I melted into a puddle;
to cry for no reason
on a shoulder of acceptance.
Instead,
I put my emotions down.
I let his hand slide
down my back,
to my waist,
to my ***
I become the good wife
I’m told I need to be.
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