The Frosting

 

 

The echoes of yesterday, lost in time-

return to her, mouth agape-

she listens to

the insults  hurled with deadly precision.

She used to think she deserved his

rancor and belittling.

As if she were a child meandering the dark at night.

The only narc I couldn’t leave,

resurrects the Jezebel, the one who truly

dwells within.

Stomping her down only goes so far-

eventually there will be a resurrection.

She will raise her serpents high

in shaking hands.

You have no rights to joy,

peace, content.

“You don’t exist without my permission!,”

the demon rages.

 

Words are thrown like stones, the enemy

within decries keep the peace;

the Warrior retaliates in object

rage-but the voices within are drumming to the beat,

the pounding rhythm of codependency.

No, she will not cower, nor bow

before his esteemed, yet imaginary authority.

Even now, ensconced in familiar,

yet hostile territory-

she  places her bedding

upon the ottoman of dreams.

And prays for better men

ahead.

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