Oct 2

It is easier
to write someone off as having been
unkind
or hateful
the type of person whom
wouldn't grimace at the bruises
they inflict.

Instead,
I love you.

Despite the way
you knowingly let
my heart break.

As you throw another fist
I brace myself, holding my breath
waiting for the pain to explode again.
I know that the flesh is already tender
and I know that the small capillaries
may not be able to withstand this, any more.

I know. I should pack my bags.
I should, stuff my memories and photos
letters and pleas for love,
in a ragged cardboard box.

Instead,
I let the fist pummel me again. Expectantly,
because after-all, I can see it coming.

I could turn away, I could fight back.
But I am too tired, and too torn apart.

So I am here, writhing on the floor,
sobs racking my body, flinching in anticipation.

And if I could pretend that these memories meant nothing
to me,
than maybe I could gather the strength to stop whispering
'Ah, but you promised. Why would you do this to me? But ah, after all. I love you still'
and instead
whisper
'No one can see forever, joy will return but not this joy.'

And let the bruises heal.

Instead,
I let the pain continue because I cannot see how I do not deserve it. I must, in someway, to
be hurt this way.

It is amazing, how quickly we can move.

Oh I was there, once, and now all of a sudden I am here-- make it count, make it count.