I think he loves me.
He tells me I’m lucky, that he knows best,
slowly teaching me to need his approval.
I feel like I’m shrinking, bit by bit,
but he would never hit me.
No, at least he would never hit me.
He loves me, I tell myself,
even when his anger feels heavy,
when I choose silence to keep the peace.
I remind myself this is love, isn’t it?
It’s compromise; not bruises to show,
and he would never hit me.
He says he loves me.
But sometimes his words cut deep,
and I feel myself fading, becoming small.
Love shouldn’t feel this way, should it?
Still, he doesn’t raise a hand.
No, thankfully, he would never hit me.
I’m not sure he loves me.
His love feels more like control,
telling me who I can see, where I can go.
Even the opinions I am allowed to have.
the scars are all inside me.
But I know he would never hit me.
Now I know, he doesn’t know how to love.
Love shouldn’t lie or manipulate,
It shouldn’t make you small…
…or leave invisible wounds that are hard to reach.
I wish he had hit me on the very first date.
At least then I’d know what was coming.
