This is not love
It is not even close

The routine
Is always the same
His use of language as a weapon
How his words know the exact places to hit
Boomerangs against the knees
Knocking you down into submission
He knows all of the right phrases
To color you invisible
Dissolve you into his hands
Purple and blue are only meant for the sky
So you rename yourself sunset
His palms against your skin
Are unforgiving in their contact
Grabbing and shaking
Cowering and pleading
His touch is never apologetic
But he always is
Swear his love
Begs for forgiveness
And promises to never do it again

You believe him
Every single time
His sorry is a silk tied noose
Deceiving in its softness
Wrapped around your neck gently
You forget that capability
Has nothing to do with appearance
That the most dangerous things
Are often dressed as gentle
Love and hurt
Are both four-letter words
But they are not meant
To be interchangeable
They do not teach you this
In grade school
Movies made it seem pretty
And desirable
To attach yourself to ticking time bomb
To crave something so volatile
But it is not pretty
To have to worry about
Doing everything correctly
For fear of not pleasing
One wrong action
Makes you a guillotine
And you would still manage
To blame yourself
For the beheading

This is not love
It is the farthest thing from

But one day you will find it
You will know when you have
When he takes his time
And listens with patience
You will know it
When his hands don't invoke flinching
His rough callus only knowing tender
And lips are reserved for kissing
You will know it
When the dull ache disappears
And there is no longer a sting
To follow
And you will say
To yourself

“This is love
That is exactly
What this is.”