Proud of you

The ceiling is a lid,
clamped tight on the scream.
His mouth, hours ago,
a swarm of hornets.
Now, silence—
not peace, not mercy—
just the thick hush of meat cooling.

I have learned the trick
of stillness.
I have learned how not to provoke
the fire that wears his face.
He beckons.
The bed is a trapdoor.
Still, I fold into it

His hand, a claim.
My body, a country
under occupation.

I want to peel off my skin
like a dress gone rancid.
I want to rot
where he can’t touch it.

He calls this love,
thrusts it into me
like a threat.

“Open up,” he says,
and I split.
Not willingly.

My hands press him back,
a whisper of resistance.
“Please,” I say.
That small, doomed word.

“You can take it.”
He parts my legs
like a butcher.

And there it is—
a triumph,
a trophy.

“I’m so proud of you,”
he says,
as if I’d earned this
like a medal.

Proud.
As if I hadn’t just
shattered quiet.
As if the blood wasn’t
a receipt.
As if pride was the prize
for surviving him.

I am noise again.
He is proud.

Proud.
Proud of me.