My confused teen self
could not support you,
though I heard his threats
ring in the night,
saw the cut above your eye
the next morning.
No one took your side
or came to protect you.
Knights in shining armor don’t exist,
not even when you’re married
to the Black Knight.
Our nuclear family,
a soap opera in perpetual rerun,
detonated periodically.
The fallout left us both contaminated,
you -- fatalistic,
me – withdrawn.
Projected endlessly
onto memory’s small screen,
its two adult stars long dead,
the family classic plays on,
while the juvenile actress-- now aged,
still begs the writers
for a happy ending.
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