The guilt you instilled in me still
Finds ways to pester me. Is this the
Language that you taught me? That
Every single thing that was wrong in
Your life was my fault? That I would never
Be worth all the sacrifices you made?
You hammered yourself onto that cross,
Rammed the arrows through your skin,
Across your bones, so that you could cash in
The rewards of endless empathy and admiration.
You martyred yourself and lied that everything
You did had always been for me. Your twisted
Self-centeredness had no limits.
You inflicted wounds without a cure.
I wonder whether I can change the
Dynamic that you left behind, within me.
Transforming your curses into goodwill.
What would a coroner say about your wounds?
Inner self-flagellation? Would I become what you
Truly have been? Through another person’s
Point of view? Without knowing a thing or two
About the infliction of non-consensual wounds?
Administered by a person of trust and authority,
Presumably, against a child that never grows older
In its harmed agonising body stuck in grief and lethargy,
Incapable of running away and saving herself?
I tried to use love as a verb for you, but
You made it so hard. I thought you would
Be my death. That’s what your fingers felt
Like on my skin, your words in the back of
My head, your foot on the gas pedal, the wrath
In every muscle of your face, how you strained
Your voice until your throat made it hard to swallow,
Dry and cracked, foreshadowing everything,
The gradual decline of your empire.
Croque-Melpomene 