The Victim (A Haiku)

“My boyfriend beat me,”
She said with two black eyes, “Can
I come in?” Hell no.

In my White Knight days I would have thrown the door open out of sympathy.

That was then. This is now.

I was also a victim of violent crime at the hands of my mother and her Alphas (she always went back to them,) in my formative years, and a victim of sexual assault by my poor uncle in the middle of the night. I’m a man, by the way. My uncle had a head full of bad wiring because of the torture and violence that he had suffered.

I often wonder who I could have been, or what I could have done had I not become slightly mentally retarded due to a pre-birth ischemic stroke. That, combined with the torture I suffered in my earliest childhood, has caused me no shortage of loss of opportunities, alienation; disappointments  and heartache.  The only difference between me and you, #Metoo-ers, is that I don’t display a Victims Badge or out the living and the dead for spite.

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