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Risen
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There used to be poetry,
Which spilled from my hands,
A waterfall of words.
But now my page is arid, barren, cracked.
There is no balm for the blisters on my soul.
My heart is an emaciated wreck.
Starved, beaten,
Suffering from
An extreme form of Stockholm syndrome.
Stumbling out into daylight and finally
Able to see, beyond the flickering
Of the shadows of the cave wall.
No, this is not the time for pretty poetry,
For neat phrases and the obscuring
Of facts.
The black stuff in your knuckle cracks?
That isn't ink, dear, that's my dried blood.
That key you hold?
It isn't to my heart, it's to my shackles.
I have the knife in the small of my spine to prove it.
You know how you said it took a monster
To break someone's trust,
To hurt them repeatedly,
To use them on a whim,
To never let them feel like enough,
To turn emotional torture into an art form?
Well...
I was a mentally ill child.
What's your excuse?
There's the punch, the line.
How about you cross back over your side?
I have a hair shirt I'm burning,
And the only reason
I'm not taking your world
Down in flames with it
Is because unlike you
I keep my promises,
And besides...
It will be far more fun
To just sit and watch
You destroy it
Yourself.
XXX
XX
X
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