He hit her–bruised her pretty cheek.
He held a knife to her throat–scarred her tender flesh.
He pushed her down–bumped her head against the wall.
He said he was sorry; he was drunk.
But he didn’t beat her up because he was drunk.
He beat her up because he was a fucking prick–
because he had serious issues that required professional attention.
He was too much of a pussy to seek that help,
and instead took his frailty out on her.
I don’t pity him his instability.
I wish him dead.
And I want to be the one to kill him.
I cannot excuse my mother.
Was she a victim, or an enabler?
She was both.
And I hate her for allowing me to get involved
in such colossal bullshit.
I’m thirty-eight years old, and remember
like it was yesterday.