He Called Me Kitten

He called me Kitten.

Soft.

Sweet.

A delicate thing to stroke in the quiet,

here to soothe him,

adore him,

curl around his ego like a ribbon.

He said it like a gift.

Like I should be grateful

to be small in his presence.

Grateful to be chosen

for his affections and conditional touch.

But what he meant was:

Don’t challenge me.

Don’t need too much.

Don’t see too much.

Because kittens don’t question.

Kittens don’t roar.

Kittens stay in the corner, purring.

Ready and waiting for when wanted.

Content to be pushed off the lap when not.

And for a while.

just a little while,

I was his kitten.

I stayed soft.

I stayed quiet.

I played the part he cast me in,

adoring him while he did what he wanted,

waiting for scraps of affection,

starving while he called it a feast.

For a while,

I felt special.

I thought it meant love.

And I loved him deeply.

But my voice was never gone,

it was hypnotized.

And as the spell cracked,

slowly, over time.

it reclaimed precious territory,

me.

I started expressing hurt and fear.

I started naming my needs,

like consistency, follow-through, and honesty.

I started highlighting unacceptable behavoir.

I stopped purring,

and started speaking.

And that,

that was when the mask slipped.

That was when the man who claimed to love me

looked me in the eyes

and recoiled.

Because he hadn’t fallen for me.

He’d fallen for my silence.

My softness.

My sweetness.

My naivety.

My insecurities.

He didn’t want a woman.

He wanted a mirror,

one that smiled,

nodded,

and never saw the cracks.

It took me awhile,

But when I finally saw everything.

I left.

I didn’t run.

I rose.

I left the name he gave me

folded on the floor like a costume.

Left the cage open.

Left the door welded shut behind me.

He called me Kitten.

And for a while, I believed him.

But now I know better.

I was never his pet.

Never his prize.

Never the sweet thing he could own.

I am the wild.

I am the voice.

I am the fire he never thought would ignite.

I do not purr for liars anymore.

I purr for me.