When I look at you,
I remember who you used to be,
I remember it in the fold of your clothes
and the dirt under your fingernails,
You worked in the garden like you were the flower,
Wearing that mask you should have worn forever.
Now when I look at you,
I do not see a woman,
I do not see palms open with apology as I should,
I see,
The hate that you harbour for me,
You planted your flowers in my throat and now I can't ******* breathe,
Yes I can see,
You settled,
But don't act like I caged you,
Little bird, you walked right on in; I just,
Turned the key,
I muzzled your snarling mouth because I was wary,
Of being bitten,
The only reason I painted you purple was because you lied when you said,
You were a blank canvas,
So don't play the wild horse if you're going to fear the one who breaks you,
You are no bucking bronco,
No, you fought fire with fire and now you're all burnt up,
You played the rose, but without all of your petals you're just thorns,
And you've made me draw blood on more than one of your edges,
But that's okay,
Because I always thought your black eyes looked better than your blue,
And I know the lion always bows to the ring master's whip,
So next time you think about starting to spit,
Your insipid lies, I'd watch your lip,
Because we are a storm,
You can't have your thunder,
Without my lightning,
Or you are nothing at all.
A poem about domestic violence from the POV of the abuser, highlighting the justifications some use to perpetuate their abuse.
