Fight me, hit me, bruise my lips –
rake your fingers over my hips.
If I said no, your actions would cease –
the respite would be faint, be brief.
You’re entitled to me, my everything –
my thoughts, my body, my dreams.
Deny, deny, you say I’m mine –
but you nail yourself in my mind.
You say you’ll never leave;
you don’t ask me.
The violence grows, the danger blooms –
but I can’t leave, it’s still too soon.
I won’t tell him, he doesn’t need to know –
the way you deliberately cut out my soul.
The worst violence was not the bruises,
was not the slips.
It was every insult that fled your lips.