Sobbing on the Kitchen Floor

It's one of those seasons again.
The ones where I'm his yo-yo,
never certain which way his fingers will flick me.

Will I go hurling towards the floor yet again?
Will this be the hit that shatters my heart,
or will it only be a dent, a scratching of paint?
Or will he stop half way down, and jerk me in a circle,
weaving me in intricate patterns and knots?

He filters what is told to others,
making me the bad guy,
the unreasonable wife,
the too-fragile one,
the ball-buster.

My words become his justification
to continue to toy with my heart -
 my words,
yanked out of context,
 thrown back in my face,
slightly twisted,
 just a little bent.

He's learning to pull me close,
to hold me in his hand without having to hurl me back to the floor.
It's a learning though,
and my heart, MY heart bears
the consequences and scars of his progress.
I didn't think there was room on my heart for more scars.
Somehow he found the few unmarked places
and stabbed me clean through.