What Am I To You?

“What am I to you?
A broken piece of your beer’s glass,
Shattered reminders of your past?”

“No,” he replied.
“You are my beautiful snowflake.
Stop this now. I have a headache.”

But I didn’t feel beautiful.
I felt hurt and used,
Beaten and bruised…


Then he asked: “What am I to you?”
“It doesn’t matter what you are to me.
Only what the children wish to see.”

I was on the ground.
My head spun round and round.

“What am I to you!?” he demanded.
“Father of our children! Our sole provider.” I cried.
He smiled, highly satisfied.

What are you to me?
A monster who trapped me in my youth,
As what I just told him was the false truth.

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