Breaking Point

It was a slow build.

Years of trauma closing in

Behind the smile

And the wide, bright eyes.

Pillows soaked with tears,

Perpetual exhaustion,

Empty promises,

Lackluster protests.

I was at a precipice.

Shatter or move forward.

A movie with a mother sobbing over

Her dead son,

The flood gates collapsed.

Do or die.

I wrote a letter to end all contact

With an abuser.

Ran to my parents' room,

And showed them my suicide letter,

A poem about a suicidal girl,

And the letter to the abuser.

I expected help.

I expected effort.

I expected support.

I was reprimanded,

Slapped with a bible verse

And thirty minute devotional,

And sent to bed.

That's when it happened.

A realization.

Vulnerability isn't an option;

If I ever wanted to heal,

Then I'd have to do it alone.