Another day in bed.
My pillow dry with tears.

You're waiting for another breakdown.
Another plea for help.

You crave me.
You want to corrupt my mind so that I will only be yours.

What hurts, even more, is how much it works.
How much I can't run away from you.

I could leave your apartment.
The door is so close.

Yet, after I cry you just shove your hands down my pants.
We get busy after that.

You make me weak.
You make me vulnerable.

You use me when I am out of strength.
To fulfil your selfish desires.

"Come here, I'll make you feel better."
My thighs are always bruised.

I expected long conversations underneath a sparkly sky.
I expected cuddles and reassurance that everything was alright.

What I got was a torn *****, bloodied bedsheets.
Bruised ankles and red eyes.

I never told you "No."
Because if I did, how would you react?

I didn't tell you this.
But I'm late.

It hasn't come in a month and I got worried.
I spit up blood more than twice a week.

How can I tell you?
You'll ask me to get rid of it.

Yet you keep pushing me.
My limits are breaking.

You're going to hurt them, stop thrusting.
It hurts.

Stop.