Poetry about life after narcissistic abuse / emotional abuse
My bed is only a slight comfort —
because I know sleep won’t come;
it never does when the high dies down.
Dripping wet hair soaks the pillow as
your words buzz around behind me
like a dagger slicing through my
turned back: you have more than
enough to give to her but never
enough for me. Trust is a label I
could only give to her, not you.
She needs to go home, I beg of you,
but the words are as empty as feelings.
I’m crazy. I’ve gone too far. But not you.
In the following weeks, she would
appear in the faces of other women,
and I would ask you the same questions:
Why don’t you want me? Why can’t we be
alone? When is it all going to stop? Where
is the love? It never arrived because of your
absence — you were not there for anyone.
I no longer ask the tough questions, and
I no longer cry because you couldn’t love
me. I keep telling myself you were the
crazy one, not me.