Handsome?
Assholes hide shit
Ask beaten
They'll say

1/3 are beaten
Be careful
It could be you
Beatings Stop!
Deb worked hard to build up her dog training business.  10 years she worked, and slowly, the dedication and long hours paid off.  Raising a child and at the same time enduring beatings were a balancing act she put up with.
When we spoke, I mentioned that I worked with victims.  "I get beat." came out
nonchalantly, as if she were talking about the weather.  "But he loves me, and promised to stop." an equally casual statement.
"Bullshit!  He doesn't love you!!" exploded from my lips!  "He's just lying  to keep his pussy in line!  It's been 10 years!  Smart people run from fire!  Are you stupid?" anger spat from my lips!
Her brow stiffened at in response.  Acceptance of the situation contorted her face  into a furious mask of rage!  "How could I be so blind?  I see it now!  10 years!  How could I just take shit?!  I'm leaving tomorrow!"
"Don't mention your plans." I cautioned her.  "Use your anger for strength!"
"Oh, no worry there.  I got the fire now!  I'm moving far away, where he'll never think to look. I'm going to abandon my van first.  It's jointly owned and could be traced."

And away!  Simple as that!  With her past energies paving the way, she got a great job right off the bat.  Now she's happy and free!  
1/3 of all homocides are committed by intimate partners.
U.S. Department of Justice.

After reading this article Bobby said, "I was thinking about going back to a man that beat me, but not now! "

Romance Fun & Crucial Wisdom By Doug Miura
Waiting Wits Jun 4
It's still a functioning heart,
Motion running through it's core.
But a beating heart is useless,
When it's lying on the floor.
Forgetting what it feels like to feel feelings- you cannot provide what you don't understand
Furey Apr 26
Why couldn’t I be the child my parents wanted?
Did God really want me to get picked on,
The shit beat out of me
By random people
Faggot
Gay slut
Even if I haven’t consented
Dark alley ways
Salty tears
Life never seems to change
Why me?
The only question that haunts my mind
Pain surges again and again
What have I ever done to deserve this
God I pray yet nothing good has come
Barely able to walk, slipping into the house
I refuse to call it home
Blood pours as a knife clatters to the floor
The distance starts to fade
It goes black
Now I’m staring at the same thing
Four white walls
Clean white sheets
I’m waiting for the pain to just start again
However the question lingers
Why me?
Why is it me?
I find it easier to talk about myself when it is written in poetry.
No love lost, No love found.
All I hear is the beating sound, My own heart burning away. Wanting to come again, but not this day.

                                  With love,  
                                        Anonymous
Wicked Mar 1
As an artist I should love all colors.
As a boy I cannot love them all.
Browns
Blues
Purples
are colors I know too well.
They're the colors of bad days
And long nights.
They lead to tear stained pillows
and sleepless nights.
They’re the imprints of his rings against my skin
and his slurred words in my ears.
They’re a reminder that my father
isn’t a dad.
our hearts keep beating
as long as they can

that's the sound of life
Quote from a source no longer remembered
A free portrait! Imagine that,
At no charge this troglodyte
Decided that I deserved a rendition in pulsing crimson, me!
He effortlessly sliced the curve of my face,
And then holding true to brute form,
Let his fists do the rest of the painting.
In a breath’s thought I fought the idea
That this strong browed man was a fan of
Yves klein, but then he caringly guided my sight
Floor-bound and I noticed that he was a
Monochromatic Pollock.

Now, I wasn’t expecting Monet,
But in truth the elegance of the lazy red river
Careening down my cheek and neck got my hopes up.

And then further was impressed by his liberalness
With bottomless black crimson
Where he’d only previously flirt with young pinot noir
As he took a break to wash and massage his stained hands
I clutched at the hope that perhaps he was done with the
Onslaught with such blunt tools,
As such methods could ruin the whole piece
Unfortunately, he returned
And his care for each swipe was becoming more

More impassioned, but less precise,
I asked if he perhaps needed a second break?
Perhaps I could assist him,
I wanted to give it a try myself, but my hands were
Tied.

In vain,
I tried to tell him that,
Perhaps,
His bearish skills and appearance,
Would be better suited to a life of leather, whips, and Oedipus Complexes,
But his response was,
Cutting.

You should never laugh at an artist
Especially the bad ones
Because then their work some how finds a way to get worse


I asked if he’d learned how to work from his father,
And whether his father had worked him in any
Other
Manner, and that’s when I became dizzy
I think.
Apparently struck a nerve.
Britney Lyn Jan 31
Cannot sleep, all these memories are haunting me; purple and blue, a gift from you.
Will they stay? When will they fade?
To die like the happiness that seems to have left me, oh so heavy.
Take this heart, stomp out all the little pieces you created, all the pieces that you hated.
Hide my face away from the hidden, show my to only the blind.
Trust is not something that is easily given, especially from this heart of mine.
Lying on the ground, where you stuck me down; battered, betrayed, I pray for the day.
Someone save me, for I am too shattered to do so myself, someone save me from this life that is my hell.
Help.
I wrote this piece 6 years ago today.
Lydia Dec 2017
I can not give you a good reason why some days my heart races into infinity
and other days it chooses to leave me hollow

that would be like asking me to rip open my chest
to expect something wild and free to do anything except what it wants just for you

my soul simply wanders into the direction my arrow chooses to go

I cannot tell you why sometimes my heart allows me to overflow my veins with happiness
while at the same time pumping anxiety into my sternum

I have spent my years searching
desperately trying to figure out an organ that was never meant to be explained to the owner of it's shell

I have been asked what I am doing with my life
and my answer is always the same
listening to my heart when it's disagreeing with my brain
Maria Etre Nov 2017
Put your heart
on hold
take a break

Sometimes
it beats
for the
wrong
reason
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