Gaslit. TW.

 
Gaslit
 
You can paint me
in that sadist light
if you like,  
I can take it,
it's not the first time
I've been sliced down to marrow,
treated like trash -
by you,
or a lesser you,
or a female version of you
or a monster.
And you
can wield the rod
to not spoil the pawn,
across inner thighs
or outer shoulderblades
until silence is inevitable,
until I'm recoloured
to fit your style.
I get it,
art is all a narrative,
the composing of a scene,
and so I understand
sometimes we blur the lines
between mundane and obscene.  
I get where you've savaged,
I get how you harm
anything that's too close to you,
alarms in hyperdrive
but I will not sit and disassociate,
give you access
to the best of me there,
instead create you a crash dummy,
an ashtray, a puppet or statue
to aim your unwarranted despair,
I will surround myself
in witnessed spaces,
avoid ever being alone
with someone so cripplingly dangerous
one who presents pain and hate
as a comfortable home.