Systemic Abuse

The air is thick with silent,
beneath, the clock ticks in hushed tones.
A house built on bones of secrets,
where hands never rest,
and bruises bloom like neglected roses.

They sit across from each other,
the abuser and the enabler,
eyes averted not by distance,
but because they are one skin,
stitched together by darkness deeper than blood.

He is the fire, she the air —
He burns, she allows him to breath,
She chokes but never coughs,
his embers lodged within her throat,
words smoldering in her silent chest.

His rage ripples through the walls,
shattering the quiet into shards of fear.
She sweeps up the fragments,
fingers bleeding unseen,
whispering “it’s normal,
— not his fault — ,
he’s just stressed, just tired,
the scapegoat made him do it”

But the fire was always there,
needing no excuse.

The scapegoat stumbles into the room —
a shadow stretched too thin —
and the house sighs,
relieved to have its sacrifice.
Their gaze shifts to the scapegoat,
a safe target,
a mirror cracked and cursed
to reflect nothing but their own fractures.
The scapegoat never cries anymore,
not here, where tears are betrayal.

A scream curls in the air,
but only silence answers.
The enabler retreats,
folding into smaller corners,
fingers trembling,
never moving to stop it,
never moving to stop him.

The abuser snarls and strikes,
but her hands are there too —
cradling the blade of his words,
pressing it deep.
The scapegoat flinches,
but nothing breaks,
nothing ever breaks.

This is not a house of people,
but a machine —
its gears oiled by guilt,
chains rusted by shame.
The enabler tightens the bolts,
whispers to the scapegoat,
“You are not enough to stop this.”

The fire roars,
the scapegoat smolders,
and the enabler smiles through the ash.

Abuser and enabler:
one flesh,
woven into the walls,
where pain has no beginning,
and silence has no end.