Broken Children

5,4,3,2,1.

The words of abuse hurl across the room as i take hostage under the table, quivering and praying to the man above in the skies to stop this.

the tone continues to get louder in a crescendo

with every syllable spat out stabbing each other in the heart,

it is the battle of the two egos who never seem to have loved until,

silence.

i breathe out a sigh of relief

momentarily.

It’s gone on for as long as i can remember,

growing up in a family that was borderline dysfunctional was not one of my proudest moments, in fact i shiver to think that all the happy memories i have of my childhood do not include my family.

I fail to bond with them.

I am just another person carrying the same name but with no feelings whatsoever for the man behind my surname.

no feelings whatsoever for the woman who has worn the gold band of betrayal on her finger for nearly 20 years.

all the feelings of pain and pity i feel filling my heavy heart are instead for the children,

the products of an unhappy marriage

the products of abuse and emotional neglect.

the products of when two people arrange themselves in a position worthy of conception,

but not worthy of sensuality.

these children grow up feeling nothing but hate for this paradox that is love,

resistant to the physical touch brought on by another person – flinching at the thought of another flesh touching their very own.

suffering from anxiety,

as they hope that they do not turn out like their mothers and fathers.

you can see the world in their eyes however it is clouded by their sadness as they realise that they are incapable of having feelings for people

they are incapable to live in harmony with another person

they are simply incapable of love.

it is beyond debilitating,

it is beyond depressing,

it’s dehumanising.

and i guess it is no surprise that they possess hearts that are fragile,

innocent and porcelain like

yet cold and emotionless.

as they continue their lonely lives as broken children.