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Bailey Owens Poem
I.
Thou shalt have no other before me.
Worship me, my child. Bow down to me.
Worship the undeserved gift of my presence.
II.
Thou shalt not question my judgement.
Those who forget their place must be corrected.
Mercy is wasted on what bites back.
III.
Thou shalt not take my name in vain.
Keep your mouth sealed when I curse yours.
Listen and do as I say.
IV.
Remember the walls, and keep them holy.
Do not leave them. Do not dream beyond them.
The world outside is meaningless.
V.
Honor thy father and ignore thy mother’s cries.
Her tears are weakness, and your obedience is strength.
Learn to love the sound of my pleasure.
VI.
Thou shalt not heal.
Your pain is devotion. Your hunger is discipline.
To seek relief is to break.
VII.
Thou shalt not desire.
Desire is for me and your husband.
Your body is a burden to be hidden, then handed over.
VIII.
Thou shalt work until your bones ache.
Then walk home alone, and maybe the night will teach you your place.
You do not deserve my fortune or protection.
IX.
Thou shalt not keep secrets.
Keep your doors open so I may see all I own.
Let no thought be private. Let no yearning be yours.
X.
Thou shalt not love.
Not her, not kindness, not change.
You, my dear, were born to serve, not to feel.
Copyright © Bailey Owens | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Bailey Owens Poem
I could feel it building before she even spoke. The pressure in the air, the deep regret. I recognize the look, the shift. It’s strange how familiar it feels. How easily my heart plummets to the floor. How loud the silence grows before everything shatters.
I spend most of my days translating, reading her tone like the weather. I rearrange my thoughts before they reach her, as if one wrong word might detonate the world.
What am I supposed to say when she asks if it’s normal, if the anger is justified? Admit that I flinch sometimes? Admit that I hear my father, incalculable and groundless? No, she’s not asking for the truth; she’s asking to be soothed for what she’s done.
Then comes the warmth, the soft embrace, the breakfast in bed. So I forgive her again, watching her form a trashy mosaic from what’s left of me, my pieces pressed together with cheap glue that never really holds.
It’s not all bad. There are still mornings that feel safe. I stay for those small reprieves, the moments she’s gentle enough to make me question my own memory. I stay to hear her whisper reste avec moi, but I’m not sure I understand the language anymore.
A quiet voice asks if I should go. Give up justifying the cage she’s put me in. Give up waiting for the love she’s saving for someone else. But I’ll stay, if just for the strange comfort of familiarity.
Copyright © Bailey Owens | Year Posted 2025
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