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It's not abuse
There are no
no outlandish scars
no black eyes
I told myself
I will not be fooled again
I told myself
he's realized his mistakes
I always said,
if it was me,
I'd leave after the first strike,
the first blow,
there were no blows,
there were no strikes
it was just a bad situation
bad things happen,
once in awhile,
all of his stories are the same,
they were all crazy,
he was just trying to help them,
don't bother with her,
she's a basket case
nothing matches up
there are no truths,
there is no substance
I feel sick.
it's not like that,
you're just over-reacting,
that's not what I said,
you're just hearing what you want to hear
I've been had.
No matter how much I tell myself,
that getting anxious will do me no good,
that I should be above all this,
that it will just make things worse
my body hums with anxiety,
it will never
puppetPuppet on a string, puppet on a fucking string,
Manipulate me, make me dance,
I'm your entertainment,
Like a wounded animal caught in a trance.
Round and round I go, on parade, its all for show,
I'm your entertainment; I'm your toy,
Here when you're lonely, here to bring you joy.
I can't see this ending, but then I couldn't see the start,
Broken and torn by you,
Yet you still hold my heart.
Its broken and bleeding,
Lying in your hand,
Tightened my strings, too hard to stand.
I'm here, I'm waiting for you to appear,
Tangled in my strings, caught within my fear.
When will it end, make the spinning stop,
I am your paper doll,
Tossed aside and crumpled,
waiting for you to smooth me out or set me alight.
A slap across the face is like a tender touch,
I would give anything for you to look at me again
I am your paper doll, crumpled and forgotten.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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