Trigger warning: abuse
|The Boy was abused.
But The Boy does not break the cycle.
In this city, in this community, he is at the top of the food chain; and I am merely an unsuspecting fish in the waters about to be caught by a hawk.
Ready to endure more pain, like I didn’t try to kill myself because I didn’t want my life without him.
I try to scream, but all that comes out is every claim I’ve ever made against him washed away by a convincing laugh of “Andrew, you overreacted big time.”
He then laughs again about how I acted like he hit me.
And I want to tell him that he tore my spirit down piece by piece, shred by shred, and left it for the dog to eat.
I want to tell him: “No, you didn’t hit me. But you destroyed me emotionally, and that’s worse.”
The Boy was abused.
And this is not to say The Boy deserved any of that.
But a cycle that he could have broken is left repeating itself again and again and again until my partner tells me that the boy sexually assaulted them.
Until another person comes forward and says he abused them, too.
I thought I was the only one; I thought I was alone.
But my partner doesn’t have the physical proof this ever happened.
And all I have are my memories and a broken self-esteem.
Everything I do; everything I write is written with him in mind.
As if he’ll care enough to listen to anything I’ve ever written.
As if his little groupies will listen to anything we have to say.
I find it really ironic how much The Boy writes poetry about having never become his abuser, and he’s right.
He didn’t become his past demons.
But he became mine.