PRISON

The patterns of abuse run through me like lines in my palm, my arteries, my veins. These won’t change. I have fought, struggled, and tried to escape the bindings of the abuse, but there is no escape. The locked prison is my soul. I flounder around bumping my head, and when realizing there is no way out, I sit in peace and acceptance. I am so tired of fighting.

Tom’s ways became the ways of my daughter-in-law. Demean, pick away at, take down, but always do so in a way that others won’t notice, only me, and what’s left of my tattered soul. I stuff it by eating, saying nothing, or lamenting constantly to Samuel who will not hear, and never acts. I am alone.

 

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