Treasured Scars


I was never able to hold my breath long enough to avoid the stench of you. Your slurred, dribbling nonsense turned my stomach.  It was a game you enjoyed.  You would watch my face to see how long it took before I became repulsed. 

In your eyes it was fun; harmless. 

I would watch the anger wash over you as the booze took you away.  You were body-snatched, replaced by a monster.  The monster hated anyone in it’s path.  But the hatred was for itself most of all.  The hate engulfed all and rage was the only outlet. 

It was a cry of pain, a cry of self-loathing, unleashed and lashing out at all of those you came into contact with. 

I was the closest target.  Convenient.  

In the light of day, with pounding head and sweaty palms, you could always justify it.  The sorry’s were meaningless.  The flowers withered like my spirit.  Your caustic soul was revealed again and again. 

I prayed for your salvation and I prayed for your demise.  I prayed for strength, for both of us. 

I packed up my sanity, guarding it carefully and ran.  I didn’t realize that my escaping would open the floodgates to the demons you had hidden from even yourself. 

My freedom is dear to me, paid for with anguish and a piece of my soul.  My sanity, at times precariously balanced on a knife edge. 

The scars I have are treasured things.  They keep me safe.

Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson

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