In his hands..
In his hand I became a pistel, cold, lucid, lethal and deadly, I was whatever he wanted me to be, I was a crayon being crushed in the art of love making, being brewed in his cup of tea, becoming empty as he poured all of me, in the process I lost my identity and became bitter, wounded, like a battered tree,
Misused and abused I lost my leaves in each passing season, every weather left me cold and tear drops were normal. The weakness between my legs made me miss his company, miss his scent as lay next to me, that tiny moment I felt wanted, and felt maybe he would change and love me.
Months turned to years and we are still fighting, arguing over spilled milk, because they reminded him of her breast, the scent reminds him of his mother, as he laid on her chest and instead of feeding him, she poisoned his childhood, told him he would be no good, and her bitterness has carved him into the man who doesn’t know how to treat a woman.
His actions molded by his past, trying to fight to be better but instead he becomes bitter and full of hate, me trying to relate but falling short, because I am used to being loved and in the end we are both left broken.