To You, My Love, Who Stole Everything:

 

You are proud to say that have never laid a hand on me

I am scared to admit not yet,

and that is why I lay awake right next to you

waiting

in never ending fear.

 

You say that you will never leave

my body

bruised or battered.

But what about my mind.

my soul?

 

I may not have a key pressed into my side

with your threats and slippery voice

preventing me from screaming out

but that's because

every time the chains of control

are tightened around my throat

I see the fight and will of my being

fade away a little more.

 

I may not have to paint my body

to conceal the black and blue tirade

in which you slithered and squeezed and constricted

until I gave in, and bent to your will.

But that's because you are the artist.

You paint the picture of a perfect relationship,

you sculpt the world in such a way that

you always come first, and are priority over all.

 

I may not have been pushed

out of the garden we share and into the blistering cold

With nothing, not even my identity.

But you made sure that you were seen

As the one that saved me from my own winter,

And you never let me forget

The inconvenience my vices cause you

And how you are my saviour.

 

You appeared to me as innocent

And good, as the healer of the broken

As the medicine my heart needed

The answer to my prayers,

The light to my darkness

 

I allowed you into my heart,

My mind, my soul.

And you became

the robber who stole my voice,

My fight, my will.

 

Love,

Me, The broken, Who is FInding Their Voice.