The Good Lord Himself could shout in your face.
You could watch it happen with your own eyes.
You’d still pretend that I wasn’t debased,
And eat up all the implausible lies.
‘Cause he’s an awful nice guy in the end,
Except for that one time he beat his wife.
A hard-working man and everyone’s friend.
It’s irrelevant that he tore up my life.
Because all those sleepless nights don’t matter,
Those pesky wounds that will never quite heal.
Let’s just ignore the innocence shattered
Don’t think, don’t talk, don’t trust, don’t feel.
Comments about this poem (Dysfunction by Jessica Longhorn )
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