Standing in the mirror
smoking gun in hand
wondering what just happened
to make me kill this man
something made this moment
was it his fault or was it mine?
what did he say to hurt me so
and make me do this crime
There was something in his movements
that set alarm bells off
the coldness in his eyes
the harshness in his laugh
And when the struggle ended
he was face down on the floor
everything as still as death
'cept the blood running toward the door
I couldn't let him break me again
and so I set me free
but although he hurt me I still know
the guilty one is me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice, you could say there’s a twist at the end but it’s so very true… good people who are victims often blame themselves unjustly. At least that’s what this poem means to me.