My heart is tattered and torn, and you told me that you couldn't be around me anymore. So I submerged myself into the words, because it was my way of escaping your memory, of escaping the way you made me feel, how you smelled, the sight of your eyes in the sun, and how they seemed to melt. I was so naive to believe every single word that you told me, I was so lost in your promises, and in my own expectations. I swear I'll never forgive myself for that, I swore that I would never fall in love with someone similar to my father, but there you were. So perfectly wrapped, hiding your wickedness inside of your gentlemanly facade, you were like the perfect trap for me, and it took practically nothing. I'm trying not to remain stuck on you, but I fell head over heels in love with you, I only wish that I had known the truth. I wish that I never would have met you, and I wish that you never knew my truth.
About the Creator
Abigail Rose
Writing helps me heal.
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I will never understand how you could choose your spouse over your own flesh and blood. She is your daughter and somehow it feels as if that never mattered to you. The moment you sympathized with our abuser, I lost all respect for you. Now, I hope you can finally see the domino effect that you have created, and I hope that you'll finally understand that the only one to blame is you. You could of stopped all of this if you wouldn't have lied for him, offered cover for him, and enabled him to continue his wretched cycle of abuse. For all of this, I will never ever respect you or love you. That is something that I cannot and will not ever be able to do. I hope that you finally notice how everything is falling to the ground around you.
By Abigail Rose6 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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