I wish you hit me.
On the face, on the arm, on my ribs,
whether it was a punch or a kick,
it did not matter.

I wish you hit me,
it would have been much easier
to show the people and your friends
the greens, the violets, the reds.

But you didn't.
Instead you used your mouth,
oh, and the sweet and bitter words,
beautiful, crazy, too much.

I bet it was easier to whisper poison
onto my ears and my head,
than to drag me out of your apartment,
and show the world who you truly are.

And now I am left with an invisible battle
that haven't even scarred yet.
And nobody knows,
nobody sees.

The greens, the violets, the reds,
the rotting, the foul smell,
of my decaying heart and soul,
eating off of your love and lies.

I wish you hit me instead.
So it was easier for the world to believe,
and easy for me to believe,
that you were the monster and not me.