A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I’ve never been more alone. 
I want to call you, right now, out of nowhere and scream.
I want to scream at you that I hate you. 
And I hate you even more right now because I can’t. 
	Because the abuse didn’t end when I left. 
	Because you’re still playing fucking games. 
I don’t grieve losing you. 
I grieved you long before I even knew I’d lost you, 
before I learned I’d never had you to begin with. 
But I need to grieve.
I need to grieve me. 
I need to grieve the fact that I gave you everything. 
Everything. 
My love. 
My time. 
My good will. 
My innocence. 
My unconditional positive regard. 
My silence.
	The times I didn’t complain. 
	The times I didn’t tell you how it hurt. 
	The times I told friends I was fine. 
	The way I let you erase pieces of me
	because I believed love meant compromise
	and it took me a while to realise you never did.
	Even now — as I hold my tongue and
	do not tell your children
	the truth about their father.
My words. 
	My words of love and reassurance. 
	My words of support.
	My word. My vows were honest. 
	You cannot say the same. 
My peace.
I built you up. More fool me. 
I defended you. 
I told them they were wrong. 
I said you loved me. 
Because you said you loved me. 
You took everything. 
Everything I offered you and more. 
And even then, 
as you bled me dry,
as my ground split from drought, 
my feelings for you shriveled detritus,
my hopes for us rotting carcasses
that smell of durian and narcissism,
even then you still squeeze for more. 
Isn’t it time you just let go?