I default
to
sentiment
when he isn’t looking
(I admire the curve of his
jaw
the slant of his eyelashes
the muddied footsteps of a troop of freckles across the
bridge of his
nose.)

He kisses me gently
And I push back
fiercer
unyielding .
(His lips are red like
the candy
he buys me on
valentine’s.)

There are fights
(shouts, screams, throwing of things)
but he never raises a hand
or does more than look hurt.
I pray for him to do just the opposite
of that
(bruises and cries and
promises?threats? of goodbyes) but he doesn’t.

Hurt me, I want to tell him.

Hurt me, and you will never have to know me
(and how I steal gum from the shop
of my before-bed rituals
of my illegible handwriting)

Hurt me, and I will have to stay away from you
(and not get my heart broken
shattered like glass
tattered like the afghan bedspread we share)