I don’t remember how you smelled,
nor the sound of your voice.
Your face is a distant memory,
your laugh– lost to time.
I only remember the terror, the hiding,
the always looking over my shoulder. . .
for the next phone call at midnight,
for the next foul thing to appear at my door.
Hurled words and objects were
your idea of “love”
Grab, break, hurt, mock. . .
pretend it’s passion, destroy it all.
Nothing left of “Us” but your malice
A stain of what I thought we were.
There were, are, never will be
memories of YOU.
Reblogged this on O LADO ESCURO DA LUA.
Thanks for the reblog!
Powerful poem. I love the finality.