some things don’t find
their place,
no matter how hard
you jam
them into a mold.
but love
was her tool, expertly
used, for sustaining
some illusion
of comme ça –
perfect for inducing
forgetfulness
about perpetual abuse,
i suppose,
or gaslight me
into thinking
my honest reactions
were wrong,
and weilded
on most occasions
to manipulate
a reciprocal response
i was wholly
unable
to give.
