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April 21, 2021

The Conjuror (A poem about trauma bonds and verbal abuse)

Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.

Conjuror, with a god’s hands

and an iron fist,

you fastened me

in your electric grip—

roses wrapped like vines

around your fingers,

to strangle me

with a white blanket

on a bed of thorns.

Death tears holes

in the underground.

Even Hades couldn’t swallow me.

Mortality would burn

like mustard gas

on his tongue.

What am I now?

 

You wage wars

in my subconscious.

I am Persephone,

half-frightened, half-in love,

with your words,

the ones that twist

two voices into one.

Your voice

becomes my own,

and grows like a tumor

in my brain.

My cancer: each day you gnaw

away at my bones.

I erode, vertebrae by vertebrae,

until I am erased.

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