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At Home, the gas lamp flickers;
bodies huddled 'round its quivering light.

It smells like death and oil,
but after so long of worshipping it
as Safety and Love-

You learn quick to mistake
Hurt for Home.

Let me put it this way, Little Love:

You,
of flower petal lungs
softened and wilted
with soot and smog-
breathe in air darkened with Death.

Simply not meant for this world;
                                  for this life.

This world,
this life,         however,
is all you've ever known.

(You are a creature of habit, after all)

So:

When each breath is a wheezing, rasping gasp-

When each bone is brittle and aching beneath the skin-

When each second stitches itself into your being-

You will still curl 'round the dancing flame of the Gas Lamp.
For its warmth is familiar,
the quivering candlelight cradles your face
with the tender hesitance of a lover-

And oh,
isn't it lovely?

To be killed so slowly
in the arms of a Gentle Death,
my Love?

To let your mind be cradled,
carried by hands that are far older than yours,
my Dear?

To be led by a God's guiding hand
to a sacrificial altar,
my Lamb?
Gideon Mar 8
It feels like you’re too close to me.
You push everyone else away from me.
They try to move closer,
But you shove yourself between them and I.
Cramped into the space of one person,
We push against each other constantly.
You push me down, smaller. I push back.
Tightly confined, I’m trapped with you, by you.
Gideon Mar 7
Your questions
So carefully
Selected

Like bullets
In a gun
You loaded.

Bang bang bang.
They only stop
When I am dead
Gideon Mar 7
You spoke about constellations.
But you’re just a black hole.
You ripped me to pieces,
And swallowed me whole.
You were all-consuming,
And I was the starless night.
In the end, we now know,
Two voids don’t make a light.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 11
This is not a common era

The trouble is threefold

Drinking from an empty glass

Opening the door to strangers

Walking along these jagged cliffs

If you tolerate this

Your children will be next
IdleHvnds Feb 20
Letting go —  is something I need to practice.
Why should I hold on to things that cause me pain.

I stand here on fire, seeking no relief, engulfed in blistering agony..
I won’t allow myself to extinguish the flames licking at my skin.
In fear that I might be just imaging things.

I don’t cry out, I don’t say a word —
I watch as my skin melts,
beads of moister gathering in the corner of my eyes,
Rolling down my cheek, these tears give little alleviation.

I walk further into the fire, as proof to myself,
This isn’t bad, I’m just being sensitive.
KnowOneknowsmeF Dec 2024
There is nothing left to say. You declared with audacity how I was an impediment. I recollected how pitiable I was, desperate for nothing, because it wouldn't, it didn't alter anything. So enamored was I with you, I relinquished half of myself to appease you. The superior parts of me I surrendered willingly to you, as I permitted myself to become illicitly compliant in the scheme of deceiving myself. I believed the half-truths, the falsehoods, and the empty promises. You made a wreck of me, exposing me to such debasingly immoral things. I thought I could trust you after everything we shared. I never knew such passions; I never felt such care. How was I to know none of it was genuine?

Time has elapsed, and I have healed. I have moved on, not as swiftly as you, and it didn't take another to get me here. So, the emails, the texts, the contacting my family needs to cease. It doesn't matter if I'm single. What mattered was that I had so much fight in me to save us I was a willing participant, my own collateral damage when it came to you. I allowed so much and pleaded for so long for you to see me, to love me as I did you. Like you once used to. The fool I played, for it wasn't love at all. It wasn't even lust; it was mere 'usage.' I contorted myself to fit into your world. I reinvented myself to a lower self in place of the worldly woman I once was. I infringed on my intellect and played dumb, forever the fool, all for you. And it still wasn't enough. You told me I was too strong, too independent, and so I diminished myself. My integrity be ******, I lowered my standards and discarded my boundaries to please you. All for what? For you to do exactly what I implored you not to do: to toy with me, to lie and deceive, to harm and torture, to manipulate and abuse. And even then, it wasn't enough. I was never enough.

No matter now. I have healed myself, and I have moved on. How wonderful it is to see I am nowhere near where I used to be, and the me I am today you'll never get close to. So, for all the attempts at contacting me and wanting to talk, I must let it be known I have nothing left to say!
Dealing with a narcissist can be incredibly challenging. In short, it's like being caught in a whirlwind of manipulation and self-centeredness. Narcissists often lack empathy and are primarily focused on their own needs and desires. They can be charming and persuasive, but their behavior can leave you feeling drained, unappreciated, and constantly questioning your own worth. It's a cycle of highs and lows, where you might feel valued one moment and completely disregarded the next. The emotional toll can be significant, as you're often left trying to navigate their unpredictable moods and demands.
Emma Dec 2024
It begins with a whisper,
soft as feathers brushing bone,
a murmur threaded with sweet venom:
You’re too much, you know that?
He says it like love, like it’s kindness
to clip the wings he gave me.

I laugh,
because that’s what you do when
someone you trust steps on your shadow,
calling it a game.
I laugh,
because his smile holds me hostage,
because my silence has become
the price of his calm.

And then it grows,
the laughter sharpens into teeth.
Each word dressed in humor
but hiding the sting.
You’re insane.
He says it with his eyes locked on mine,
searching for the fracture.
You believe anything, don’t you? Idiot.
And the room becomes smaller
as the air folds itself into shame.

I once thought trust
was a ribbon we tied between us,
a thread unbroken.
But he pulls it taut
only to watch me stumble,
to laugh as it frays
beneath the weight of his lies.

I was naive—
yes, that’s true—
to think love was a place of safety,
to believe his words were mine to hold.
But now, his laughter
hangs heavy in the corners,
and I wonder:
when did the joke become me?

It isn’t love
when your softness becomes his sport,
when he laughs at the tender parts
and calls it play.
It isn’t love
to twist innocence into a punchline
and leave the room echoing
with your shame.

But still,
he grins like the sun,
and for a moment,
I almost believe
it’s all in my head.
After I spent many years of abuse I can finally write about it. Sometimes you don't realise things are really wrong until you're out of the situation. I pray noone has to go through this.
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