The Makeup of Scars

Shocked at the stories of my husband,

sharing about our son with his family,

hearing the laughter and the praising voice from the other end,

I sit beside him in silence, shielding my son,

sulking about the miserable laughter,

bearing, torturing myself to sit through it,

completely the knowing of losing myself,

the mere voice at the edge of my tongue,

awaiting to rip apart the lies thrown to the outside,

I mute my cry in the darkest hours of the sky,

I soften the riot over the warmth of child's call for his father,

I rush into the bathroom for a shower to scream,

to drain out the fever that comes from my bloodstream,

don't tell your son how to bring up my child,

instead, I learn what not to carry on,

the underlying cues of discriminations that overstep,

poking to disrupt the changes to accustom,

an emotional pain is what your son is,

oh, I should say, my husband has become one after marriage,

the breach in the walks of a verbal abuser,

the suit and tie, doesn't suit the grace of the gentleman,

from a glass to a bottle leveling up for the performance,

teach your son what consent is,

don't emotionally torture me or my mother,

with the demand for a second grandchild,

the pain from the trauma you instilled is still living,

from the before and after time of pregnancy of the first,

blaming myself, I stand by his side,

hoping he will change or I can,

the false promises of marriage planted with the ceremonial praying,

I take all the blame on my back for his outcomes,

for forced sex is an exemption in marriage,

not a word allowed to break out,

living with him along with his family,

the triggers in me don't find a way out,

but losing the conscience of my very being,

ends up fearing myself and my son's life,

I don't refuse in saying, I don't have the courage,

but I gather myself to stand the pain of being taken care of,

the only trump card he carries that makes it submissive,

it is an everyday fight with my existence,

denying the defining strength to overstep the overbearing,

the life of lies narrated outside,

conflicting the reality of many,

shadowed by the pulled curtains for privacy,

addressing the emotional triggers,

I tell my therapist,

I live with trauma,

looking back with questions and responses,

life gets recorded as a trauma in papers,

don't ask me what freedom is to me,

for the blush from my smile bleeding into suicidal thoughts,

lightning the inner darkness,

awaits for something unknown,

searching for a change,

yet constantly triggered at the absence felt in his presence,

the denial of his fatherhood,

the lack of empathy,

the loss of nature,

the lack of sense to extend a hand to help,

it doesn't put me in shock in the flock of knots,

as it seems to be shared with raising voices,

encouraging the common habitualities,

the grandiose of marriage welcomed by his family,

is to live in terms with adapt and bear concept,

there is no wonder why the life of the daughter-in-law comes down to suicide,

at least, the most I have come across with these thoughts,

yet the census tells me otherwise,

and I don't doubt it for even a second,

the pain in the emotional unavailability we blame,

but brewing in the nerves of his,

is said to be unexpressible in the face of norms,

he can't cry openly is the truth,

witnessing the laughter that, triggered,

the weekend call that dragged,

fueling the trauma to survive,

and the healing to never speak up,

the warnings of the walk-ins,

I surrender to the vibrations jolting my body,

Yet addressing you, my son,

I won't let the weariness in your eyes weigh my bearings,

I won't let the fearful silence tear you apart,

I won't let the comparisons pass on as inheritance,

so don't hesitate to loosen yourself up,

I am right here, listening to you.

- Nov 11, 2024