A speaker watches someone they care about fall apart. He sobs, eyes shut and face wet, as he pours out the abuse "she" once inflicted on him. The poem lists it bluntly in single-word lines: insults, threats, bruises, rape. The short, flat lines feel like a record being read aloud, and they hit hard because nothing softens them.
Against his release, the speaker is frozen. They stare at the wall and cannot move, and the poem leaves that paralysis unexplained. The last two questions show what is going on inside. The speaker fears that doing nothing makes them no better than the abuser, and feels unworthy of the trust he has shown by confiding. The title, "Blurred Lines," suggests the boundary between helper and bystander, or between guilt and blame, has gone fuzzy for them.
The mood is raw, heavy, and quietly guilty. It is less about the abuse itself than about the helplessness of listening to it.