The Devil You Know

I always picked the devils I knew. Smiling demons that reflected the narcissism and don't-give-a-shit-ism of my mother and the abusive partners she married and discarded.



Abuse is familiar. It feels like, "Oh, I hear this song a lot. I know all the words." It's a discordant, screeching, foul song. But I know all the words.

You'd think after a lifetime of crap, I'd recognize crap. Oh, I told myself time and again, this wasn't crap. It was treasure covered in crap. Remove the dirt. The ugly words. The violent threats. The destruction of walls, doors, cabinetry, me. Ignore. Deny. Remember the good days.



Dig, dig, and dig.



Because treasure.



But no. No.



There's nothing pure and golden waiting to be discovered under the shit.



It's all shit.



Right down to the core.



So, I escaped.



I'm out of tears.



But not words.



Those I will always have.



And so will you.