Tag: domestic abuse

Exploring Narcissistic Abuse

In my own words

If I could
I would

In my own words

If you could hear
I would tell

In my own words

If you could feel empathy
I would make the effort

In my own words

If you actually could feel
Anything but hate

My words would be worthwhile

In my own words
Silence is what you hear

In my own words
Silence is what you feel

In my own words
Silence is what you fear

My silent words are worthwhile

Suffixes for Abuse

The prefixes you have for me
Usually start with fucking (insert derogatory term here)
You used them the moment you knew off me
Not anything about me–just off me

A threat to your carefully spun web of deceit
Of course you feel threatened by me
You cannot manipulate me
You cannot predict me

Your open threat:
‘Hands down I will win.’
Won’t work with me
I am healing–the noun
That means I am ripping off band-aids

Granddad always said:
‘Let air touch the wound to heal.’
Air, and light, and love
You won’t stop me loving them
You won’t stop me healing them

But you, you
For you I have given up
I have let go

And as of now
–after enduring years of your prefixes–
For you I have a suffix
May she rot in hell

Abused Men

Like an Ikea shelf 
She dismantled him 
There were screws left 
Who cares
 She shrugged 

Women can be abusers too 
Get over it 

Trembling the boards fell down 
Every time she incomprehensibly panted down the phone 
Threw up words like bile that won’t stay in 
Projectile vomiting of hatred

 Like an Ikea shelf 
He would tremble 
Dissociate 
Disconnect 
To cope 

His sin? You ask 
Was not to obey the psychopath 
Not play the game any longer 
Making her meaningless in his life 

She can’t abide 
Not winning 
Not playing 
Not cheating 
Not lying 

She needs to fucking win 
She cheated with three different guys 
Just because she could 
She abused until there were witnesses 

Then she ran 
She span 
She twisted 
She warped 
She threw up more bile 

It’s all pointless 
She is spinning 
A perpetuate motion machine 
Without hope to win 
Over the one thing she ought to win over 
Her inner demons

Proxy for war 04

The extented version

Greed couldn’t breathe
Panick encrouched from all directions

Must win battle
Must win battle
Must win battle

The fog monster had wrapped it’s tentacles around her warped mind
The warrioress was a deadend
Manipulation didn’t work
Abusing her didn’t work

Where is the weak link?

Her eyes darkened
A vicious grin
Grimace what used to be a face

An elderly mother
With ailing health
I take the monster to her
I will let it’s tentacles wrap around her

And so she went
Off to find yet another proxy
For the war against herself

I bear Witness

The Search: Black Shadow Blues, IV, 1981 Jon Schueler

Reimagined after a visit in Kelvingrove Museum, Glasgow

Like Wildfire

Wildfire
Racing over beheaded stalks of wheat

There is not much nourishment
In stubble

Faster and faster
She races desperate to keep the flames going
Desperate to keep control

So, so scared that once the flames run out
There will be nothingness

And out of the nothing a shape will form
A shape so terrifying
So horrendous
So frightening
The only thing her rage will not burn

Out of the nothingness
Will rise
A mirror

Dead Eyes

Dead eyes,
Like a broken gate,
Are not the door to the soul anymore.

Dead eyes,
Make me wonder,
If the soul is dead, too?

Dead words,
Out of your mouth,
Full of contradictions and manipulation.

Dead words,
Entangle themselves,
In in fabrications of a sick mind.

Dead eyes,
Don’t blink,
Not even if you think you should bring on tears.

Dead eyes,
Even scarier,
In a face that doesn’t move on top a a rigid body.

Dead language,
Void of emotion,
Bar pure violence and hatred.

Dead language,
You know what you should say,
But make sure that it cannot be followed through.

Dead eyes,
Are frightening,
They give goosebumps to my bones,
The hair on my neck rises,
My stomach clenches,
Archaic scripts on my DNA wanting to grab my stone-edged-spear,
Adrenaline kicks my body into full blown fight mode.

Dead eyes,
No-one at home,
All that’s left is bile, anger, pain, loss.
There is no help for dead eyes.

Pebbles are Skittish

Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
The pebbles had rolled off the slopes.
They could not hold on any longer.
They were too light, too smooth, too innocent.
The tornado carried them away.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
Parts of his soul.
Parts of his heart.
Parts of him, carried away into the unknown.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
So the pebbles lived in the eye of the tornado.
Bouncing around the globe as she saw fit.
They didn’t know of the destruction.
There is peace in the eye of the tornado.
Only sometimes, when she moved too erratic,
Would the pebbles glimpse debris, vomit, spew, and racket.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
But they didn’t know what it meant.
When they saw bits of the debris.
They saw bits of the mountain.
They recognized the bits of the mountain.
Violently circling in the debris signature below.
So they came to associate the mountain with violence and rage.
Because that’s what they saw through the eye of the tornado.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They could not hear the mountain over the noise of the tornado.
They could not see the mountain through the ball of vomit and bile.

The Rock

Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
He was a rock.
Strong, tall, rough, boisterous, as happy as rocks can be.
A mountain really, with smooth patches, softened by eons of experience,
With frost scars from a distant past.
‘He will last forever’, they said.
‘He is so strong. He is the powerful one.’
But they didn’t know.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know, that:
Every day, the rock was fighting.
They didn’t know, that:
She was the hurricane of insanity.
Screaming at him, tearing off parts of the solid facade.
She was the tornado of destruction.
He never knew when she would hit.
He never knew what ammunition she had picked up on her path of destruction.
They didn’t know, because air is invisible.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know that she would always find a way.
To force entry into the frost-scar.
To violently insert poisonous pellets of ice,
Which would break the frost-scars wide open.
Which had made his mountain-top crumble, and eroded his slopes.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know, that the hurricanes hatred was an obsession.
It was her sport, her past-time.
Because he was a rock. Because he was a mountain. So he could not move.
He could not defend himself.
He was the strong one, he was not permitted to rebuke.
So she was tantalizing, hunting, hurting, sometimes for a change, whisper warm spring winds. Soft air playing with the bleeding scars.
And he could not move.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know that after a couple of days of silence.
She could not bear it any longer and she would vomit her debris,
Violently, spew it all over him.
He could not even open an umbrella.
And still they didn’t know.
He had no bruises, the cuts invisible. The frost-scars, just frost scars.
But this was just the beginning…

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