i have this bad case of emotional abuse
honestly, all it does for me is serve to amuse
because have you ever let something so stupid happen?
all you can do is laugh at yourself for allowing it
i am the one hurting myself -
you you you
you've given me a bad case of emotional abuse
(and i let you)

Your Breath
        bitter with alcohol
Your Words
        slurred without thought
You Don't Remember
        you never do
Why Don't You Join Your Family
        i guess the bottle is more comforting

*** stains my lips.
i can't remember the taste of your lips anymore.

All strung
out
       on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
      that injected
the next defense
      to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
            of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
      the truth behind
the doors of
           beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
             vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
       in an ocean of sighs

Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
                       drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
    sick doctor
who shares
          this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing

In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
   who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
         the stars,
receiving their
            shadows
           of light
      like a blessing
   upon my
   nettle-stung
    tongue
and
       rise

The house is full of horrors,
This house, it owns no love.
The air is filled with madness,
The floor boards moan in sadness.
The sounds it makes at night,
And the walls, blood red and white,
Represent the turmoil that’s going on inside,
But everything is perfect on the outside.
The grass is trimmed,
The flowers bloomed,
The hedges cut,
The paint renewed,
So people walking by they smile,
And continue on their way.
But the house it cannot move,
For a house wasn’t built with feet to run,
Or a mouth or eyes,
To tell you something’s wrong.
This house it carries on,
It has to stand up strong,
To support the demons ruining
All the paint work.
They will rip it all to shreds,
Tare it up until it’s nearly dead,
Without a detectable scratch upon the surface.
The house it cannot show
The scars it bares inside,
And its figured that’s all it’ll ever deserve.
There’s no way to break the cycle
trust me it’s tried,
And all it’s done is made itself cry,
Which resulted in a leak down from the roof.
The house was beat
And still no outward proof.
There never was,
Nor will there ever be,
Someone there to help it carry on.

they say a child can grow up conditioning themselves
to forget
all the trauma they've experienced;
they say they quite literally push it
to the back of their minds, as a way of coping,
a way to deal with the pain―without actually dealing with it.

it'll all come crashing back, eventually
everyone knows that a dam is a temporary structure,
that eventually the chemicals in the water
will erode the wood and
break it apart

it all comes rushing in
and escapes through blood-shot eyes,
drooling, sobbing coughs and panic-slick wheezes.

i never fully managed to forget my father
though i'm sure there are things i don't remember―
after all, that's an awful lot of hatred
and anger
for only several incidents, and a lifetime of an alcoholic's neglect...
isn't it?

but you―you i managed to block out completely
to the point where i knew the phrase "emotional abuse"
but couldn't quite be sure why i applied it to you;
it was just something i knew
instinctively

how foolish it was for me to break the dam myself,
out of some morbid, masochistic curiosity:
"what did she do? what did she do to me? why?"
and then i remembered

all the sleepless nights spent reading to you,
lulling your insomniac mind (though not as bad as mind)
and soothing the supposed nightmares you had:
nightmares that you, conveniently, only suffered
when i was asleep―and i was hardly ever sleeping

all the memories you blurred between me
and your last boyfriend; all the ways
you made me feel like ****, comparing me
to a **** bag that cheated on you
and then lured you in again with falsities and
repeated apologies. you fell for it every time,
and i had to wonder: why am i not good enough
compared to that?

the way you asked me to watch you in the bath,
whilst you drew on your skin and told me:
"this is what i do to avoid cutting myself"
and i thought:
"i'm still cutting"
but i sacrificed my own stability to ensure your safety

******* martyr, i was
how disgusting to allow myself to be manipulated by you,
even after the hours you left me guessing out of spite
whether or not you'd burned your skin with that lighter
just because i didn't want to spoil your mood with my own

the holiday i spent in my dream city was spoiled
and stained and joyless, as you ****** the soul out of me
by burning images into my mind:
you and him, sharing a bath, looking after his family's kids.
why the **** would you do that to me?
more importantly, why the ****
did i let you? and still love you?

so many more incidents, so many more
broken promises and sick lies;
the way you hid me from your family
and only trusted me not to cheat because i'm demisexual;
you made sure i'd never emotionally connect with anybody else
and find attraction in them,
lest i move on from you and find another

one that wouldn't abuse me
like you did