Why? Why am I so stupid?  

I can’t believe I did this again.

My palms sweat with the sin they caused as

this meat bleeds on the floor like a warning!

Will my blood join this crimson tide atop these pale green tiles?

 

What do I say when he comes home, what do I do when he sees?

Should I even attempt to cower?

My head is a beehive of swarming questions.

 

Blame lies with me

like the blemishes and blisters scarring my skin.

Everything ruined.

And it’s ALL my fault.

It’s ALWAYS my fault because

I don’t love him the way

he loves me.

 

He loves me...

Repeat five times and I might believe it.

 

When my young Marlon Brando arrives in his street car,

and my Stella notices his rum red eyes,

I will be too hindered by his beauty to remember why I was scared.

And then it’ll...hit me.

 

Calm. Cool. Don’t cry. Don’t beg for his mercy.

Just get clean and collected,

Don’t be affected

By the cuts from his ring that feel so infected

and at least- I’m not neglected

because he loves me…

 

And when the biting burns cease,

he will hold me in bruised hands,

begging me for forgiveness

and the bile burning at the back of my throat will reseed.

 

His last week sorrys sit in a vase on the kitchen counter and

drip wilting red roses petals.

He loves me.

His apologies sooth like bedtime lullabies with

“Babe”, “angel”

curling from those crinkled lips like candy.

But there’s always a price for sweet.

Sugar and spice and everything nice:

that’s what little girls are made of,

And yet my father won’t watch his little girl

cry over spilled dinner,

won’t watch his baby crack

in the grip of abuse.

He loves me not.

 

I am alone,

I am a china cup in clumsy hands,

there’s nothing but his hands.

 

Hands!

With one brush, they lock an attraction,

melding two into their own faction,

contraptions dividing hearts into fractions

So why do they tear at me?

 

They used to caress me,

now they possess me,

in the nectar of nothingness that burns like nicotine.

I can handle the hitting,

but not sitting in this wasteland of fear.

 

He loves me. Repeat ten.

Repeat twenty.

Repeat plenty,

Repeat five hundred and

I still...reset to zero.

Even...when his love lacks

consent, he still  repents,

and here we are.

He loves me...He...loves me...He loves me…

The petals I pick only state that…

He loves me…

So when the door opens,

why do I shake?