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.
