The moment that you realize your life
Is being lived so
it will not offend
Someone who says he loves you, buy a knife
To cut the halter
from your neck, and send
Him on his way—that’s slavery, not love.
That’s you
suppressing who you are to get
Something your honest self would rather shove
In front of subway
cars than make a pet.
It’s love—but it’s the kind of love that feeds
On making sure you
always toe the line,
Say “What sweet flowers!” when he gives you weeds,
And never (God forbid) step on a mine—
A love that is,
besides a sour charade,
A frightened
tyrant who must be obeyed.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells
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