I talked to him today,
He was quiet,
Unsure as the first time I spoke up,
But that’s okay, progress is progress,
Or so I’m told.
I want to scream at him,
Cry and scream and screech until I can’t hear myself over my sobs,
Clawing their way up through the doubt and hatred I have,
Because he’ll never know,
Never understand the damage he did.
He still smiles slightly when he sees me,
Like he thinks he knows what to say that will make it all better,
(Probably because it’s worked one too many times for him,
Roses and bruises and red lips all fade….)
What’s love without a little harm?
Fight like lovers do,
But I always end up at the bottom of the bed,
Cradling another broken piece,
Dripping onto the floor,
The blood and tears create a mural of hollowed…something’s….
A script of what to avoid, that last next time,
What not to do that one last time…
But I talked to him today,
He was silent as the grave,
Guess he didn’t prepare for that next time to be his last.