In the tempest of his words,

A storm brews, sharp and relentless,

Each syllable a dagger of ice,

Piercing deep, freezing the marrow.

I stand, a wounded warrior,

Firm in my rebellion,

Each unspoken emotion, a shield,

Against the fury of his hands.

His anger crashes like waves against,

The cliffs of my composure,

Yet within, a quiet tremor rumbles,

A fracture in my porcelain mask.

I swallow his muddy waters,

My eyes as still as a midnight pond,

Reflecting back his thunderous rage

With a gaze of chilling calm.

No tears dare stain my cheeks, no cry,

Escapes the prison of my lips.

And as the waves returned to the sea,

So his words give way to silence.

He sees only the surface,

The serene facade of stoic resolve,

Not the painful hurricane churning,

Beneath the tranquil surface.

I refuse to let him gaze upon,

The turbulence he’s brought.

I refuse to let him drown me,

I refuse.