Epitaph of the Abused
Amidst the cruel claws of doubt
I plunged disastrously without
Your helping hand, your soothing voice,
In spite of how you had the choice;
You've purchased now my dying breath
Through willed abuse, my cause of death.
Such shrewd abuse, the form of which
Is crude neglect and wicked word
The currency that made you rich
And turmoil that within me stirred.
Like putting out a fire by
Pretending that it isn't there,
Or heartening me as I cry
By gifting me an empty stare.
Like making my body hurt less
By handing me a pack of smokes.
In order to relieve my stress,
Lobotomize me as I choke.
The torment you've engraved in me
Through harsh, relentless, cold abuse
Does prompt one thought, that death is glee,
To which I offer no excuse.
Such cold abuse, such cold abuse
That racks my frame, my mind, my soul.
Like reassuring a recluse
By not talking to him at all.
Like swindling your warmth from me
By giving it to someone else
And forcing me to sit and see
While ice around me slowly melts.
Like lying in a manner bland
About the bullet you would take,
So that I wouldn't think "to hand
The gun to you is a mistake."
Copyright © Gael Attal | Year Posted 2011
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