she calls it “love” ,
but her hands leave bruises,
not just on skin,
but also on my heart.
her words,
knives dipped in honey,
cutting deep,
whilst she smiles, she pretends nothings wrong.
Dad flinches in her shadow,
not because he’s scared.
not of her,
but of what she would do if he leaves.
she’s not scary,
she’s not too loud.
she’s fragile,
Deadly.
he says,
”she’s not well…”
he says,
”she needs my help”
she weeps for show,
then spits venom when no one’s looking,
a master at masking,
a magician of guilt.
she tells me I’m worthless
and calls it discipline,
tells me I’m just overreacting,
when I shake in my sleep.
i count my steps,
tiptoe through storms,
holding my breath at the sound of her footsteps.
i should feel safe at home…right?
but here, where I’m from—
homes a cage.
if love is what she says it is,
what she implies,
maybe I don’t want it,
maybe I don’t want to be loved.
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