Mother

The gloves come off –
we draw our swords
Hers is made of pure brawn, dark & razor sharp,
criticism still glistening off of the blade as she has just sliced
her favorite victim
My own weapon is weak and flimsy,
made of sound logic
but her words cut deeper than mine
My confidence wavers but
I still fight
Blow after blow knocks me back,
her booming voice smacks me in the face
hit after hit
I drop to my knees in surrender
but the battle is not over yet
She breaks my sword in half
and the pieces whimper & scurry behind the couch
(please take me with you)
Her strength & size were not used to bring me down
instead her words will cause my scarring
I will bleed internally so not to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she has broken me
All of her cruel words blend together into the force of a thudding speaker
turned up as loud as it can go
And though the music stops,
her footsteps pound away to the same beat
leaving me shattered and scared
Her words brought her victory
Mine have committed suicide.