Like It Was Yesterday

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.

But!

I cannot excuse my mother.

Can I?

Was she a victim, or an enabler?

Both.

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.

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