HE'S THE ONE

By Renee Cronley

I married the best parts of him—

his humour, generosity, and charm

glittered off his calm, glassy surface

like the diamond he slipped on my finger—

reflecting the qualities he wanted me to see.

I never saw the current raging beneath

a rip tide of blood that boils without warning—

it melted the 24 carat gold he wrapped me in

into pools of nightmares

he poured over the foundation

of the kind of home he wanted to build—

this is where I drown every day.

I suffocate on his toxic words

as he reaps my self-confidence

and my energy drains

under his watchful eyes.

Once my anger spilled out

so he rammed it down my throat

and choked it out with his own.

Now I eat it quietly,

expanding with another weakness

and another place for him to poke that hurts—

a sloven image from his clean-cut shadow

as he garners sympathy from those

he feeds with his silver tongue.

I hide behind baggy clothes,

trying to look less than

what he might want to see

and try to disappear.

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