Helping Hands

How come love for some
requires the use of pain?
There’s nothing worse
than having the one who holds your heart
cut it out with a knife,
stomp on it till it is crushed
then say it was for your own good.

To have your frail sense of trust,
so delicate and thin,
be shredded in the name of improvement
bleeds you more
than an enemy’s hands.

Sitting in the darkness
totally alone in the loneliness,
agonizing over the reality
death won’t end the misery,
only time you get relief
is when the “helpful” person arrives
who uses whips and torture
as their idea of comfort.

Danger comes when you become convinced
you are the one who is insane,
accepting the beatings they say is beneficial.

And even after you escape
that devil still visits your head,
reliving the image with same intensity,
grateful when morning stops the invasion,
some times still left shaking from the flashbacks.