Poem: Christ on a Cross

"I don't care what you think,"
thinking it and feeling it as she said it.
"I only care about the fact
that you are offending me with your words.
How dare you say those words to me."
They're just words.
"Please hug me," I say pathetically.
"No, not after what you said to me."
She replied looking at me with disgust,
like I'm a leper.
"Don't touch me."
This is how it all starts with her.
I just want to be touched,
to be cuddled with,
and she doesn't.

So she makes up a fight
to justify us
not-touching.
Without the fight she is stuck
with the truth.
Faced with vulnerability and trust,
That we all give up when we have sex.

Of course it's always my fault.
Totally and completely.
I plead guilty to wanting to touch her.
Why does she hate me for it?
Why does she yell at me,
when she knows I have PTSD,
and my father yelled at me.
Why does she yell at me for covering my ears
because I'm scared of her yelling,
reminded of my father.

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Why do I love her...
is it because of her Abuse of me?
Emulating my family?
The air gets still as I write this.
Maybe it's too close,
to the truth.

Her house is kryptonite
to my superman.