Did it boost your ego,
To cut me down?
Did it make you feel good,
To watch me drown?
Did it make you feel smart,
To make me feel dumb?
You’ve got to be an expert
At feeling numb.
Did it make you feel bigger,
Telling everyone how you rejected me?
Do you feel more worthy,
Pretending you had to set yourself free?
Did it make you feel strong,
Trying to break me?
Doesn’t it feel wrong,
Tearing me apart?
Were you just acting
From the very start?
Trauma bonds & soul connections,
They’re your preferred works of art.
I must admit you had me fooled,
Felt I was looking in a mirror
When I was really being groomed.
But it’s okay when being schooled
Leads to lessons and being tooled.
You think you’ve won,
But honey I’ve got news for you,
I’m a survivor baby,
So in the end…
You lose.
About the Creator
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2 Sides
I find myself making excuses for you, But I know I can’t. I have to make myself see, You’ve finally shown the truth to me. You did it harsh and painful, Cutting like a knife, Before, in the end, Tossing me out of your life. But then I have to wonder, Was that really you? Was it that time after a few months, Where you showed your colors true? Or was this trauma triggers? I’ve been there myself; you see. I know how it can be. Are we a little bit the same? It doesn’t excuse the pain, But it might help explain. I always thought we were uniquely qualified together, But maybe I should be knowing better. Stuck between forcing myself to believe the worst, And trusting my feelings, Giving in to the urge to show patience & tolerance. I sit here in the distance, Pondering my feelings, And trying to keep busy. Honey, this is far from easy, But I’m a pro at pulling through, So I’ll just leave it up to you.
By Trish Marie Respalie3 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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