He loves me.
I promise he loves me.
In fact, his love for me is so deep he feels the need to draw marks on my body as evidence.
He called my body a canvas and his fist the paint brush.
His paint was the alcohol that gave him power to love me like could…he said.
Love me like a real man should he said.
Love me like he loved to hit.
I embraced that love with open arms,
Glorifying the way it hurt because love to me was that pain he provided.
Love to me was when his temper sky rocketed and that quake like fear it left running through my veins……….the way I should have been running away from him.
But I didn’t.
Instead I accepted the way he gave me his love.
I welcomed the scars of his affection that made a home on my skin for me to see everyday.
I began to see the bruises as beautiful shades.
The black eye in my eyes was prettier than any cut crease ever made
I adored the way his fingers wrapped around my neck,
And the fingerprints resembled necklaces made from fine pearls,
I tried to see it as beauty and for awhile it was,
I began to see what other women were treated like and my eyes opened wide at how I ignored all these red flagged signs….
Because finally I saw that …
Other women got chocolates while I got slaps,
Other women got foot rubs while I got lashes to my back.
When their love was symbolized with words mine was branded with pain.
“Those are other women,” he said with frustration and anger laced in his voice.
And soon… just like that, the beauty of my love began to fade.
The scars became ugly and the bruises looked disgusting.
His words were no longer loving but something I struggle to admit to myself even to this day ….
I told him the kind of love he offered me was wrong,
I told him I couldn’t take it anymore.
So when he told me I could leave,
I never looked back.