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I was the man of the house, the house all alone, 
Alone in the hills of the crippled gum trees.
It was a hundred years old, an original, no heating nor cooling, 
Cooked in summer and in winter we’d freeze.
My 6 foot step son, built like a tank, detesting me,
And, at 15, he never talked much.
He seemed socially wooden, no comprehension,
Pulling away from his own mother’s touch.

One day I returned after a day of fake proud,
Finding all of the windows shattered, smashed.
The doors were all splintered, punch marks in the walls,
Every room had been perfectly trashed.
This was the start of 8 months of hell, 
Nothing I did changed his attitude, head space or his rage.
I was covered in petrol, attacked with a butcher’s knife and a chainsaw,
I was living chained to the side of a cage.

Why did I go through this for so long?
Because I loved the love of his mum.
But why did I care about this love so much? 
Because my previous marriage had been numb.
And why did I not like feeling so numb?
I hated being a spectator and watching my peers.
I hated being a spectator, why? I asked,
I wanted to feel again through happiness and tears.

Yep, there’s other drama to domestic violence 
For a topic not often talked about.
Of course he was doing meth and other drugs,
It was 24 hours later that he’d black out.
So I was nearly killed often and didn’t leave home,
For one very greedy and selfish ideal.
I loved the fear of pain and fear of suffering, 
It was my angst, dread and horror that I’d feel.



Entered into "Reality" contest by Nayda Ivette Negron	6/17/2016, ranked First place

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