#pypm

Well, that's a wrap! Chapter 12 was posted yesterday concluding my catradora Medieval AU. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who supported me through out this fic and I had such a good time cranking out a multi-chaptered fic again after so long 😌

I also want to thank @fruitsand-peachies for beta-ing my chapters and for providing with the most beautiful art work of scenes from throughout this fic as well ✨️ her work can be seen in this post and you should all definitely go check out her blog too!

I have more stuff in store, but in the meantime, you can also find some of my other catradora fics here 💖 Thank you all so much again, and I'll see you next time!

I must have been predisposed to abuse.

Whether it is physical, verbal, or emotional.

People know to misemploy me.

Destroy me.

I must have been predisposed to abuse because it seems to follow me with every relationship that I have.

My dad use to beat my mom.

But my mom was so big of a fire that he just couldn’t put her out.. (Extinguish her roaring flames)

No matter the amount of fists, shrieks, and shouts.

She would still burn the house down.

I was playing anti gravity.

Keeping two fist from colliding, but not strong enough to release his grip from around my mother neck..

Those same marks keep showing on mine years later..

I didn’t know scars were heredity, trauma could be passed down

These scars feel like my birth mark.

Pleased so precisely he knew by ripping this part of my neck I would choke.

Not knowing I was already prepared for this I fight with my fire like my mother taught..

Or atleast how she brought me up.

I must have been vulnerable to abuse..

Because I now obtain the same coping skills as my mother,

Chastising my brother, I never wanted to become an engulfing flame like her.

I can only concur that abuse is a cycle..

My mothers flames that’s she’s obtain to keep the world out have burnt my brother and I down.

Replacing our curiosity driven smiles with permanent frowns.

Her words, melting us down as if she were a welder.

I understood why my dad tried to put out her fire,

But my mom was a fighter…

I must have been prone to abuse

Because flame throwing words killed my self esteem, at only 13.

Starting back since I was 6.

I didn’t know which hurt more, her words or her fist.

I grew to hate my own existence because it just didn’t seem to please you.

But how could you love me, when you never dealt with your abuse..

I’m pretty sure I was made liable to abuse.

That’s why my boyfriend clinches my neck the way he does, it can’t be his fault.

That’s why my ex boyfriend clinched my neck the way he did, it can’t be his fault

that’s why my dad clinched my neck the way he did my mothers, it can’t be his fault

Because these words we speak are like Forrest fires, cremating our surround peers with our words

One blow and it’s all gone.

Char and ashes covering the savory sweet green grass that use to grow, long brown branches stretching out like limps, burned with first degree burns like the ones I wear all over my body from the fire.

My mother use to beat me, but her words hurt me more.

My father never provided, but his lack of parental advocacy as a man hurt me more

I’ve been predisposed to abuse so the only two boyfriends I’ve had caught on to that trait and they beat me.

Your cries of affectionate sound so much more sincere when they are truly followed by tears

My story doesn’t sound right without me gasping for air

My eyes only seem to tell the truth when they our bulging out coated with indigo welps.

I must have been predisposed to abuse

My youth filled with foggy memories.

Only moments I remember I those stained in time with blood.

I didn’t fall for the thug, no the boy with mommy issues

I don’t know where the tissues are for the million tears that fall.

I must be some type of pawn.

Too let the beatings continue on

Fist of fury flying back

But they’re no match for you flying fist of might.

He hit me at midnight,

And I tried to act too tired to leave then.

This is strike 10, and I can’t go through this again.

I can’t sit here and pretend like this isn’t happening What type of reaction is blacking my eye? Or busting my lip? Or twisting my limbs? How can we pretend like the world isn’t trying to kill me. My men, my brothers, my mother, my father, why bother?

I must have been birthed into the cycle. Because when my boyfriend fractured my face I didn’t react I seem to be on track, keeping right up with cycle This is second nature To cope with the Pain every relationships has its up and downs or its dead. It’s dead.. If you don’t stick it out through the fights what’s the points? He said he didn’t mean to hit me.. But I can’t play Whitney, Bobby believe me be I love myself more than to play punching bag. Baby, I stepped out of that ring 3 years ago. But it appears as though I’ve been cursed with abuse. What’s love got to do with you taking away my sight,