I have come to learn
that some abuse is excusable.
That as long as the bruises
are only on my heart
and not where anyone can see it,
it is fine.
As long as they are not strewn across my face
or peeking out from under my sleeve
then it isn’t a real problem.

“Physical abuse is more extreme”
then why do words heard so long ago
still sting years later?
Why, if the bruise from a stub of the toe
has long since faded,
do I wake in the middle of the night
to the memory of a kick to the heart
after such time has passed?

I have learned to fear
the ‘family’ room at certain times of the day.
Never knowing if I will laugh and relax
or be stung by words with such venom
that a snake would be jealous.
Will I smile and be carefree
or will my eyes brim with tears
that are only freed once I am alone?

“It’s not that bad”
is a false statement.
My home has been stolen by someone
who does not understand the pang of harsh words.
“It’s not their fault”
but there’s no excuse for those
who make no effort to love and empathize.

But I refuse to tolerate the words of hatred
and the criticism of one’s freedoms.
The lack of sympathy and understanding.
The ignorance of those who will not learn
to appreciate the beauty in others.

I could tolerate a hit.
I could take a punch.
I would take one
if it meant the invisible bullets of hostility
would be gone forever.