Poor thing

You complain about minutes
as if you had somewhere to be
as if your time
were somehow worth more than mine.

Let’s talk about the hours spent barricaded
behind a bedroom door
in case you decided to grace me with an unwelcome visit.
That doorknob lock wasn’t close to being enough.
A four-year-old with a pen could unlock that farce.
And let’s face it…you threatened to remove the doors anyway.
The basement was supposed to be my refuge
but you haunted that too
following me like a fucking ghost
intent on disturbing my peace.
What peace?

My haven
100 square feet out of 4000
pretending the drywall was barbed wire
wishing it would grow teeth.
Did you know my escape plan
was hidden under the mattress?

Strategically placed items
—books, pens, cords—
their legs signaled your snooping
no,
your invasion
of an already shredded privacy.

Oh, Adrenaline, my familiar friend,
it’s been at least 16 minutes since we last met.
When I had to explain why I was going to bed at a “normal” time.
His very presence destroys my nervous system.
I retreat pretending normality
but I know it’s tenuous
and anything but normal.
Nightmares threaten
every time I close my eyes
but I’m already living in one.

The cold sheets are a shock to my skin
but my internal clock is screaming at me.
Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!
My heart is hammering in my chest.
He’ll be down soon.
I try to relax
but really
I’m waiting
waiting
waiting
waiting
waiting
with bated breath
while a monster named Dread
drapes my shoulders.

I know he’s coming.
His control compels him.
He needs to check.
He needs to know if my light is still on.
He needs to knock.
He needs to ask.
He needs to question.
He needs to interrogate.
He needs to accuse.
He needs to gaslight.
”You said you were going to bed. Why is your light still on?”
Why are you down here watching the silhouette of my bedroom door?
The true meaning behind his question hangs in the scowl on his tense face.
Unsaid words with clear messages.

”I don’t trust you and I have a right to know your every thought, move, and breath.
You’re mine.
It pisses me off that you’re not in my bed.
You’re my wife.
How dare you embarrass me like this.
You think you can just sleep in a separate room?
I fucking own you.”

The silence in my ears is too loud.
Was that a footstep on the stairs?
That fucking carpet
once so soft and luxurious, so adored
is now the greatest accomplice to his prowling.
Oh shit.
Not a sound.
I’m sleeping, can’t he tell?
The light is off.
Please go away. God, please make him go away.
My skin is crawling
knowing he’s listening right outside the door.
I can feel it.
My breath becomes my enemy.
My heartbeat is too fucking loud.
He can probably hear it from here.
He’ll be mad if he knows I have that chair against the door.
Why doesn’t it reach the fucking bed?
Too much of a gap.
I know it’s still not enough.
Shove a towel under the door. Give him nothing. No light from my phone. No cracks.
Jam a pillow between the chair and the bed.
It’s better than nothing. Maybe it’ll slow him down.
Will this be my last night?
Will I be a statistic tomorrow?

Your torment was a sick game
of intentional mind fucks.
Overt attempts at watching, spying, and feigned indifference.
Covert displays of intimidation, disrespect, and perceived authority.
Me—trying to sleep.
You—dropping weights one drywall sheet over.
Plates and bars hitting the floor like it was 10:00am, not 10:00pm.
Reminders
not of your muscular strength
but of your perverse need to control.

They call it fight or flight.
I call it walking on eggshells,
watching my blood pressure rise daily at 5:00pm,
spiking when that garage door cadence penetrates the wall.
I call it sleeping two stories away from my babies under a pretense of pain
wishing I could scoop them and flee.
I call it an endless refrain of “How the fuck did I get here?”
crafting a melancholy melody
in my mind.
I call it putting on a fake smile
taking virtual meetings
with circles under my eyes
their darkness mirroring the despair etched into my being.

You stole years from me
and you dare complain about minutes?
Poor thing.

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