Broken Chair

“What do I have to do

To prove I love you?” he said.

The back of the chair is gone,

The spindles broken off.

 

Violence Is not love

 

I walk past the chair,

Afraid, guilty, ashamed.

He broke the chair

In front of her last night.

The seat and legs survived.

 

I sit on the seat, sad and alone

 

This is my life, my reality.

Words will be said,

Perpetuated in the neurons,

Dragged into the feeling

Of the paddles in my hands.

 

I didn’t deserve this

 

It took a long time

But it did get better.

I do see that chair

With the back broken off,

And I hand my shame

Back into his hands.

 

Violence is not love

 

© 2018 Valerie Hathaway

 

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