Every Last Drop

Your Balled Fist

Smaller.
More compact.
Hunched over.
Crumpled.
Not intact.
Broken
submissive slave.

Quiet I stood as you went about your day.
I would cry in front of you after a verbal lashing.
You comforted a pet over me,
the dog who whimpered in his sleep.
Same room, face-to-face.
Somehow I'm always in last place,
yet first to bear the blame.
Less than a dog,
but also the cause
of all of your flaws.

Funny how that works, right?
Sometimes I think I only survived out of spite.
The blank look in your eyes—
I know nothing registers up there.
Don't bother pretending to care,
flashing your expertly crafted smile
at all who you deem worthwhile.

It didn't happen all at once.
If I'd known the bars were coming, I'd have run,
but there was no chorus of screams or horrendous thump.
It was the crumple of paper in your balled fist.
Tighter, tighter, with each setting of the sun.
Fingers enclosing and light growing dim.
I was cracked like a glow stick,
always putty in your hands,
to transfer the stress from your body into mine.

Grunting, pushing, breaking free.
You will not be the end of me.
I'm lifting myself out from underneath your thumb.
I know your weakness.
You have only one:
Control.
It's your Golden Calf.
You were promised the last laugh,
led astray by your delusions.
When your gaudy temple crumbles—
when Control, your muse and lover,
finally is humbled,
you will have no one left, no throne.
Your actions are your own.
Each failed promise to change rests on your shoulders and yours alone.
Now I have the whole world to roam,
because I've stopped bowing to your idol.
I've revoked your title.
I own myself once more.