She showed up limping and my hackles were raised.
I know that limp.
I know that gaze; 1000 yards away.
...(what happened?)...
She could hardly sit down, kept shifting her weight side to side, unable to find comfort, even on a padded bar stool.

"He's a good guy," she said.
"I don't know why...where it came from...I tried to do everything right."

"Trick-***-**-*****!! Lucky I don't **** you."

"At least I've still got my teeth," she offered.

I listen with an open heart to her,
say it's not her fault.
She knows, but why does this keep happening?
I wish I had an answer.

She flinched as I touched her shoulder.
I see now that this, too, was violence.  Physical invasion.
Blurred lines of cruelty and concern, warmth and wickedness.

"No one will believe me...cause he's a good guy..."

I hear you and I believe.