The beginning of the end

is always in the middle, 

just like your hand always was

with my thighs.

No never meant anything.

And the end of the beginning

is always in the middle,

just like how I felt when I agreed.

I didn't want anything,

but I wanted to be loved.

To feel loved.

Love was always painful;

hair yanked,

body shoved,

being F-O-R-C-E-D.

Consent?

That's something you need

to learn about.

Why didn't you ask?

You never cared,

you just wanted those stolen goods.

You almost stole it all.

Almost.

But, like water trickles

through the narrow gaps in the concrete

and into the soil to renew it,

so did the realization

that I didn't need you.

The end is in the middle

of the beginning,

just like every sentence

that was thrown my way.

Every end to a cruel phrase

was just the beginning to

a new storm.

It was a constant flood,

never ebbing.

How could I think that

that was love?

How could I think I needed it?

I didn't need your false love,

your verbal abuse,

your stale cigarette breath.

I didn't need that.

You were toxic, 

and I was addicted.

Addiction can end.

So could we.

The middle of the end

is a new beginning,

and I realized that

when you threw me away for the

umpteenth time

to rest your hand in the middle

of someone's else's thighs,

to jumpstart the end

to someone else's beginning.

How could you be such a monster?

At first, I blamed myself,

but now I see,

you were the one who caused the scars.