Abuse I’ve Worked On — New Poems

The week left wreckage behind.
 He sat still, eyes wide—kept open by nicotine and a survival
instinct that never shut off. Sober, technically. But nothing felt still
inside. The thoughts were loud. Chaotic. Racing without lanes. He
wasn’t high, just haunted. Haunted in a way sobriety never prepared
him for.
 This was the first of its kind—this version of himself.
 Still standing, still shaking.
 Still sober, still spiraling.
 He told himself the past was patched. He had “done the work.” He
had the scars and apologies to prove it. But healing isn’t linear, and
trauma doesn’t need permission to revisit you. Sometimes it barges in
like it owns the place.
 He’d done everything right, hadn’t he?
 So why was he still so wrong inside?
 “How does evil gain its power?”
 He whispered the question like a riddle to himself.
 Not through violence. Not always.
 Evil is quieter than that.
 It manipulates. It controls. It wears smiles. It whispers lies in
crowds and lets them echo in others’ mouths.
 He thought about the group he once trusted.
 There’s always a leader.
 And there’s always one man who doesn’t agree.
 That man was him.
 He didn’t follow the doctrine. Didn’t bow when they bowed.
Didn’t cheer when they praised the wrong things. So his peers turned
cold. Friends became silent. Family became mirrors he couldn’t look
into. Even strangers—passing faces in the world—seemed to nod
along with the ones who had turned against him, as if rejection were
contagious.

 They didn’t even know what the leader believed. They just
followed.
 And somehow, he became the villain in a story he didn’t write.
 He worked on his past.
 People.
 Places.
 Things.
 All of it.
 He dragged it into therapy.
 He meditated.
 He journaled.
 He apologized.
 But still—PTSD spoke louder than closure.
 It twisted good moments into threats.
 It showed up in smiles that felt too wide.
 It lingered in rooms that should’ve felt safe.
 “It’s not you anymore,” he told himself. “It’s them now.”
 But then a different voice inside whispered back, “It was always
you. And it still is.”
 Conflicted. Torn.
 Trained to heal, but triggered anyway.
 He hated the way people looked at him. Not because of pity—but
because of projection. They needed him to be the broken one. The
problem. The one with “baggage.” So they could feel lighter by
comparison.
 He saw through it.
 The illusion. The game. The performance.
 Even among loved ones, he felt like a stranger trapped in someone
else’s narrative. He didn’t want to be anyone’s symbol. He just
wanted to breathe.
 Returning home should’ve helped.
 It didn’t.

 He came back looking better—face clean, clothes crisp, voice
steady. But the nerves were still there, tucked under the collar. He saw
them all—Mom, Dad, aunties, uncles. Smiles. Hugs. Questions laced
with judgment. The usual script.
 And by the end of it,
 he was once again ashamed.
 Alone.
 Replaced.
 Friends disappeared.
 Family grew silent.
 All because of an ex-lover’s lies, or maybe their own unspoken
disappointments.
 He said the words without meaning them: “I’m just renting a
room, is all.”
 But that room? That sentence? That’s all that was left of “home.”
 And then—
 something shifted.
 Not dramatically. Not loudly.
 Just enough.
 The sky opened up. Blue, endless, forgiving. Clouds floated by
without urgency. A breeze moved around him like it finally knew his
name.
 He exhaled—the kind of exhale that only comes when the body
believes it’s safe, even if the mind isn’t sure yet.
 The noise faded.
 The sensationalism? Gone.
 The dramatics tugging at his heartstrings? Finally loosened.
 He didn’t need to fight, or prove, or explain. He didn’t need to be
anything but here.
 And in that silence,
 in that breath,
 he found it.
 Not redemption. Not closure.

 But something far more sacred:
 Peace.
 Not perfect.
 But real.
 His sweet home.