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ILL, A Two-Part Diatribe,
Part II
You could not tell your mother
You were living with me, home with me and in my bed,
That I had touched you in so many intimate ways,
That you had professed your love for me,
And solemnly promised to cherish, honor and behave.
You told me you would make me proud,
That you were woman of parts,
You claimed piety, and beauty of extraordinary soul.
You misrepresented your every intention!
I mean, it hurts me more, more every day,
I simply can not believe,
Believe how often you misspoke to me.
I understand that I must,
But I have this difficulty getting over it.
I shake my head in disbelief, your cold, cold heart
No exaggeration, here, my spirit crestfallen,
You trampled my soul,
Aborted any hope, and deprived me
Even to semblance, a hint of dignity.
You continually lied to your mother,
Chasing back and forth, duplicity,
When the telephone rang you lived at the hostel,
Not with me at this address, this was your home,
You lived here with me,
What nicety allowed you excuse,
How dare you adopt and practice such perfidy
Whose scope took me more than a year to realize?
But the biggest lie, the lie you tell yourself,
And here, I guess, dwells the real evil,
About the past being the past,
About your ability to forget it,
That no such thing as trauma exists!
Why call it domestic abuse,
Just sweep it under the rug.
Thats your claim; in spite your readily apparent pain.
Good Lord, take a moment,
Review everything that had happened,
It is as if you were saying, I need no help,
My involvement with that man, the horror,
It has no impact; it does not affect my character!
When I hear your words,
When they run through my mind,
I accept how you have hurt me,
My soul cleaves, a man cleaves unto a woman,
My souls always a part of you.
You want to be my friend,
You say it over and again,
You say its what you always wanted,
But you show no effort to prove it,
No recovery or willingness to accept
The central fact you must face the sickness,
It rules you and your biggest lie, your failure,
Your wrong, how you hurt, most, yourself,
Your living a lie, a symptom of the thing,
The monster within who plots your death,
Here is the real truth, your disease it kills you.
You saw my conduct, how I lead with my heart,
Suspended disbelief, dropped all critical acumen
To woo you, to be proper man, so much love,
You commented praiseworthily
About the propriety of my ways,
And you saw how I raised my child.
Princess, and thats a title your heart fancies!
Princess, the world bellows,
Whole world does see, my marvelous girl,
Its the price paid, it frequently happens to nobility,
It happens to many, when to privilege born.
Your life now public and up for rebuke,
Your lousy demeanor and ultimate want of character,
The lowness of your family life soon immortal,
Your treachery to live forever in published verse.
You say you want to be my friend,
Yet do not acknowledge bosom requires
Both honesty and accommodation, and you,
My love, have not inclination,
You seem to have no talent for neither.
I hardly have anything left to say,
Ill eat some candy, open a can,
Ill have some pork and beans.
I curse the day,
The day my dream of loves uplift turned to descent.
Some one once wrote, I believe it reads,
In noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain.
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