I catch the eye of your smokestack attack,
your knick-knack decree, your prickly glee,
your steel filigree of quack accusations;
your erroneous, odious, misconceived notion
that you hold the skeleton key.
How dare you presume to assess my position,
to deny my depths, my needs and my reasons,
How dare you declare that mistreatment thrills me.
Why would you wish to further diminish
this unwilling detainee.
You misread my desires and you speak of agendas,
dismembering debris from my deadened embers,
placing the blame and incentive on me;
yet you can’t oversee my weighty life story
you’re not even a nominee.
I repudiate all of your fool’s accusations
as you blithely peruse your self-satisfied sewage,
denying the truth that the root of abuse
lies with the abuser, who uses his beastly repartee
to make a recluse of me.
Each time he unlooses his sly war-cry ruses
that criticise and vilify, and meanly seek to crucify,
the savagery is magnified and yet
he denies or justifies his horrifying lies,
crushing me like a flea.
He steals all my strength and my self-belief,
and leaves me convinced that I’m too weak to leave.
I want to break free, find my redemption,
but all I have left are weapons of feathers;
I am a failed escapee.
How can I fight or escape the mind-rape;
I can’t fake the fire whose flames have died.
I’ve no place to flee and no way to hide.
Your ignorance stinks, you’ve wakened my ire,
you are mistaken, you see.
You glug your bootlace, bottled psychology,
lamely proclaiming I’m playing a game,
of break-ups and make-ups and titillation
and lusty fun with fumbling seduction,
but you are wrong about me.
It’s high-time you scrapped your latchkey untruths.
Cease denying, reclassifying and minimising
refusing and excusing the crime of abuse.
Don’t spit slick idioms as you lick your silver spoon,
and finally, leave me be.
I’ve run out of internet data 8 days before the new month begins, and am publishing this via my daughter’s account. This is the fourth month running that this has happened. Up until then, I always had loads left at the end of the month. I’m not using the internet any more than I used to. I feel confused and frustrated, so instead of doing the sensible thing – ringing my supplier and asking what’s going on – I’m taking it out on someone who wrote an insulting post about a million years ago, claiming that women who are abused, stay because they enjoy the abuse…
©Jane Paterson Basil