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Niamh

Poetry

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Abuse

When love is not love…

I am watching you

and everything you do

keeping careful note

of the way you move,

the clothes you wear

the way you do your hair

which colours you favour

the foods you choose

pretending I love you

that I’m in awe of you

 

you lap up each compliment

growing more trusting

and vulnerable with

every passing day

unaware that I am building

an ammunition store

 

I’ll use your trust and secrets

to diminish you, crush you

for I fear you, your strength,

generosity and ability to love

and that which scares me

must be destroyed.

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In the dark

I hear steps behind me,

soft soled creeping slowly closer,

then dropping away

just like you did in our life

 

playing on my fears and emotions

a Chinese water torture

of anger and dread

denial and disbelief

 

even then I knew the truth

but hardly dared believe,

now I am moving on

breaking slowly free

but still your footsteps echo

 

long into the night

cutting into my sleep

a cry before dawn

 

©  Niamh Corcoran 31/1/2016

 

I am

The pellucid promise of a  sunny future

turns opaque in a mist of silence

and carefully timed thrusts

screams stuttered to a halt

by a look, a smirk, a knowing

that you’re caught as surely

as a noose around your neck,

the gold band you wore so proudly

the children you love so deeply

bind you to your jailer as he waltzes

upon a trap he believes unbreakable

humming a tune only he can hear

deaf to all but his own words, blinded

by his overgrown ego; he is safe

does not notice the subtle changes

that will break the walls trapping you

he has stolen your voice claims your

body as his own but not your soul nor

the strength of spirit that will set you

free

The Prize

when the price becomes too high

the knife edge seems sharper

the blade cuts deeper, each wound

bleeds brighter, longer

 

the noose tightens, suffocates

the world turns a nauseous

shade of blue, each breath stabs

even as it grasps

 

the lifeline dangles just out of reach,

held aloft by your raw and bitter

laughter, your foot on my throat

stamps and

 

blackness takes hold,

your apologies with your tears

fall like blood drops

to a sanitised floor

 

I watch through swollen eyes

as you are led away

between two policewomen

with well-practised ennui

 

a nurse fiddles with a drip

pats my hand in sympathy

tells me you will  cause

no more trouble

 

but I know better

you will chase me down

the prize is not in the having

but in never letting go.

 

© Niamh  20/01/2015

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