A VIOLENT POEM or ANOTHER POEM ABOUT MY ABUSER

Except this time, it is not about forgiveness.
This time, it is about how the worst part
of me fantasizes about actually physically
hurting you. I have dreamt of kicking you,
pulling out slivers of your hair, as if violence
is the patron saint of healing—cause damage
to repair damage. The dirtiest of my heart
enjoys picturing you alone. Wilted. Soaking
in a bathtub of nails. Swallowing one for each
grievance against me.

I wonder when I will stop writing about you.
Perhaps, when I finally accept the truth—
that you are just as powerless now
as I was then. No matter how many times
I write you into forgiveness, you can never unbe
what you were. You will always be winter. Your face,
forever that snarling mask.
Your name always tasting like blood.


- Sierra DeMulder

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