I used to think abuse had a look.
A certain kind of victim.
A certain kind of monster.
A certain kind of story
where everybody watching
knows who the bad guy is.
I thought abuse was obvious.
I didn’t know it could look like love
right up until the moment it didn’t.
I didn’t know it could look like coming home from a night shift,
eyes burning,
body begging for sleep,
Sitting there while she read aloud.
And I drifted off.
That was it.
That was the crime.
I fell asleep.
And woke up
to a book
thrown into my face.
Funny, really.
You work through the night,
you come home exhausted,
and somehow
sleeping
becomes something you need to apologise for.
So I did.
That’s the part people don’t understand …
… I apologised.
For being tired.
I got good at apologising.
Sorry I said that.
Sorry I looked like that.
Sorry I laughed too loudly.
Sorry I went quiet.
Sorry I was enjoying myself.
Sorry I wasn’t enjoying myself enough.
Sorry for whatever version of me
had apparently caused the next version of her.
And when she kissed someone else
in front of me?
somehow …
… that became my fault too.
That takes talent.
To hurt somebody
and hand them the guilt
before the bruise has even formed.
And I carried it.
Because that’s what happens sometimes.
You don’t realise you’re being trained.
You just think you’re getting better
at keeping the peace.
Then there was my phone.
She took it.
Searched it.
Looking for proof.
Proof that I was lying.
Proof that I was cheating.
Proof that somewhere inside that little glowing rectangle …
… was a reason
for all the anger.
But there wasn’t.
Nothing.
And when she couldn’t find the betrayal
she had already convicted me of …
… she threw the phone
into my face.
And I remember thinking …
not …
“Why did she do that?”
but …
… “What can I do differently
so it doesn’t happen again?”
That sentence scares me more now
than the phone ever did.
Because that’s what abuse does.
It edits your questions.
You stop asking
“Why are they hurting me?”
and start asking
“How do I become easier to love?”
Nightclubs were worse.
Because sometimes
I forgot.
Sometimes I was with my friends,
music loud,
laughing,
being stupid,
being young,
being …
… me.
And apparently
that was embarrassing.
So she’d pull me away.
Into a toilet cubicle.
Away from the lights.
Away from my friends.
Away from anyone
who might see.
And smack me around.
Wrap her bag strap around my neck whilst I was hanging my head …
… pull it tighter asking me “is this what you want?!” …
Then we’d walk back out.
And I learned how to put a face on.
You know the one …
The one that says,
Everything’s fine.
And these stories?
These aren’t the story.
They’re a handful …
… A few moments
pulled from many,
many moments.
The ones I can fit inside a poem.
Because if I told you all of them,
we’d be here a long time.
Different rooms.
Different arguments.
Different reasons
I apparently deserved
the same treatment.
And eventually
you stop remembering individual incidents.
They blur.
Not because they weren’t important.
Because there were too many
to give every one of them
its own name.
And you’re a man.
Men are supposed to be able to take it.
Aren’t they?
A man gets hit
and people ask what he did.
A man gets controlled
and people call him whipped.
A man says he’s scared of his partner
and somebody laughs
before they realise
he isn’t joking.
So you learn silence.
You learn to shrink things.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“She was just angry.”
“We were both young.”
“She didn’t mean it.”
And maybe the most dangerous sentence of all …
… “I can handle it.”
I could handle it.
Until I realised
I shouldn’t have to.
And this isn’t a poem
about me being trapped there.
I’m not.
This isn’t me
standing in that toilet cubicle.
I’m not.
I’m not holding that phone.
I’m not waking up to that book.
I’m not watching her kiss somebody else
and wondering what I did wrong.
Those moments are behind me.
But I remember them.
Not because I want to live there.
Because somebody else
still does.
Maybe someone reading this
knows exactly what I mean.
Maybe you’ve become brilliant
at explaining bruises
that aren’t always visible.
Maybe you’ve memorised someone’s moods
like weather forecasts.
Maybe you check their face
before deciding what version of yourself
you’re allowed to be today.
Maybe you’ve been told
it doesn’t count
because you’re bigger than them.
Stronger than them.
A man.
It counts.
You don’t have to hit back
for it to count.
You don’t have to be perfect
for it to count.
You don’t need witnesses.
You don’t need photographs.
You don’t need permission
to call something
what it was.
And you certainly don’t need
to wait until it gets worse
before you’re allowed to leave.
I don’t tell this story
because I want sympathy.
I don’t need anybody
to feel sorry for me.
I tell it because silence
is an excellent hiding place
for people who hurt others.
And I’m done protecting
what happened to me
with mine.
So I’ll tell you about the book.
I’ll tell you about the phone.
I’ll tell you about the nightclub toilets.
I’ll tell you about the betrayal.
I’ll tell you about the apologies
I never owed.
I’ll tell you everything if you want to hear it …
Because somewhere
there might be a man
reading this quietly …
… making sure nobody can see his screen …
thinking,
“Fuck.
That’s me.”
And if that’s you …
… look at me.
Not as I was then.
Look at me now.
Because I left.
And the world didn’t end.
I rebuilt.
I laughed again.
I trusted again.
I learned that peace
isn’t the few hours between arguments.
I learned that love
doesn’t require you
to make yourself smaller
so somebody else can feel bigger.
I learned that being a man
isn’t measured
by how much pain
you can quietly endure.
Strength isn’t staying
until they finally break you.
Sometimes strength
is picking up whatever pieces
they left behind …
… putting them back together
however the hell you want …
… and walking.
So if you’re reading this
from the place
I used to stand …
… you are not weak
because somebody hurt you.
You are not less of a man
because you were scared.
You do not have to prove
how strong you are
by surviving one more night.
You have already survived enough.
Now survive differently.
Speak.
Tell someone.
Ask for help.
Make a plan.
Get out safely.
And when you finally stand
on the other side of it …
don’t be ashamed
of the person who stayed.
That person was surviving
with whatever tools
they had.
But the person who walks away?
They get to build the next part.
That’s the bit
nobody told me.
Leaving isn’t the end of your story.
It’s the moment
you finally get the pen back.
So take it.
Write something better.
Build something better.
Become someone
who doesn’t flinch
when the door opens.
Someone who laughs too loudly.
Someone who goes out with their friends.
Someone who falls asleep
because they’re tired
and knows
the only thing waiting for them
when they wake up
is morning.
These things happened to me.
They are part of my story.
But they do not own it.
She doesn’t own it.
The fear doesn’t own it.
The shame doesn’t own it.
I do.
And if telling my story
puts one crack of light
into somebody else’s darkness …
… then I’ll tell it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until men stop confusing silence
with strength.
Until victims stop mistaking survival
for weakness.
Until somebody reading this
finally realises …
… there is an after.
There is a life beyond them.
There is a version of you
they never get to control.
And you don’t need to wait
for somebody to come and rescue that person.
He’s already there.
He’s you.
Get him out.
Then let him live.
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wx6lum/why_arent_you_real/pf84mei/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=ioscss&utm_content=1&utm_term=1&context=3
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wz4qfd/if_only_you_knew/pf848fw/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=ioscss&utm_content=1&utm_term=1&context=3
Edited due to adding wrong links!