Rotten apple
Did you even try to find out
The person she really is
Before landing the first punch?
The first bite of the rotten apple
You offered on a plate of fake love.
Charismatic and alive, supportive
At first, appearing more than you are.
You buried her alive in her devotion,
Made her beg for your attention,
Twisted things so she’d doubt her reality,
Interrogating her from the inside out.
You didn’t want her to seek shelter.
You didn’t want her to speak to anyone
Beyond the fence of your control.
Her failure to leave was weakness to you,
Intensifying your disgust of her.
You only wanted to lock her in this box
Where no one could ever find her,
And only you would hold the key.
You wanted her to be afraid
So you’d never be alone.
She moved two times to escape you,
Still stalked by this rotten inside,
Burying this shame, this guilt, confusion
Down deep in a place she could not see.
Today you’re just a ghost from her past,
A passing figment, a blurred murmur.
She lives and breathes and recalls,
But you don’t shape her, not at all.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 20, 2020
This week I read how the Phoenix
Act passed into law in California this year, giving victims of domestic
violence ten years to report, rather than only three. Many victims are too
traumatised to report and it can take years to recover, if at all. This act is
due to the efforts of Evan Rachel Wood, a DV survivor.
Did you even try to find out
The person she really is
Before landing the first punch?
The first bite of the rotten apple
You offered on a plate of fake love.
Charismatic and alive, supportive
At first, appearing more than you are.
You buried her alive in her devotion,
Made her beg for your attention,
Twisted things so she’d doubt her reality,
Interrogating her from the inside out.
You didn’t want her to seek shelter.
You didn’t want her to speak to anyone
Beyond the fence of your control.
Her failure to leave was weakness to you,
Intensifying your disgust of her.
You only wanted to lock her in this box
Where no one could ever find her,
And only you would hold the key.
You wanted her to be afraid
So you’d never be alone.
She moved two times to escape you,
Still stalked by this rotten inside,
Burying this shame, this guilt, confusion
Down deep in a place she could not see.
Today you’re just a ghost from her past,
A passing figment, a blurred murmur.
She lives and breathes and recalls,
But you don’t shape her, not at all.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 20, 2020
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