Cold tears of yet-again betrayal
slowly creeping down my cheeks.
Why does everyone keep lying
about what really happened and
the content of her character?
The finger pointing and judgments
just keep coming, even after years
of living amends.
Could they ever even consider that
the first eighteen years strongly shaped
the following thirty?
(Promiscuity, alcoholism, miscarriages, divorce -
brokenness and an inability to cope/live;
we were never taught the proper skills, so we
'managed' as well as adult children can
with no other options offered except
I strive daily to shield myself and
live my truth
but poisonous vapor-like comments
somehow manage to find the
microscopic cracks in my scarred soul.
There seems to be a determination
among the survivors
to make a silk purse out of a
And perhaps she was a saint
at the end.
(I wouldn't know - I wasn't allowed in.)
But what about all the time before that?
And the pain and hurts caused, never healed
or regretted, by her?
Does alleged sacrifice heal
actual, real harms?
I do forgive, reluctantly.
But I will never forget
that is going on
(Today's poetry prompt: my own pain.)
(Posted for Jingle Poetry, "Saints, Monks, & Meditation" theme, 6-26-11)
I've been invited to participate in the Promising Poet's weekly rally. Here's the link back to the rally so you can read more great submissions.