"Why do you love her?”
I don’t know, mom. Why don’t you ask yourself the same thing about dad every once in awhile?
Why do you love him?

Does the way he wraps his barbaric hands around your womanhood and rinses it of all pride turn you on?
Or maybe it’s the way his fists move with your tears… the choreography perfectly in sync with the ballad of your captivity… comfort… conformity - same thing, right?

Why do you love him?
Do you not see the chains on your ankles?
These are the same rusty chains that held onto your self-doubt; you’re drowning in a glass of water, mother.
The hinges are loose but you’re so stupid… so in love… your vision is blurry now. Let go of the tears you held back for sixteen years.

“Why do you love her?”
I don’t know, mother. Somewhere between the passion and commotion; the *** and the rage, I forgot.
I think I understand why you’re holding on.. It’s all in the comfort of knowing they will always be there. It’s all in the lack of trying and just being.

I don’t know why I love her.