If you knew how it feels when you cut in,
with a blade to the core of my heart, within;
if you felt what I feel when the torture begins –
if you really loved this loveable person
under this bloody and broken skin…
I don’t think you’d be able to hurt me again.
When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,
when you promise me that I can believe what you say;
and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –
when you refuse to let me get away
from the constant hurt and pain…
How can you even spit the words “I love you”, at me, anyway?
Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,
you battered it into something no longer reminiscent of mine;
once you knew that I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –
once you saw the ways by which my spirit is defined
only a matter of mattered time…
before the Universe levels out, and the planets re-aligned.
If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled’
at the hands of your very own, singularly beloved;
if your heart stabbed so bad, that you wished you were dead –
if you spent every moment of your nights underneath dread
and your days cleaning up the wounds on your head…
I’m sure you would have already killed me, instead.
When your marks cover all of my visible parts,
yet, you can’t fight your despicable urges to tear me apart;
when the light shines onto what you’ve done again in the dark –
when you recognize the terror, so you’re sure to make it smart
and you capitalize on my body, down to a medieval dungeon art…
it’s no wonder then, that my blood runs so burgundy from your heart.
This is a poem that recently found scribbled by hand into an old notebook I used to keep during my marriage/captivity. This is something that I wrote right around the very first time that I tried to leave my The Ripper, when I was eighteen years old and six months pregnant with Boo.
The important thing I would like anyone who reads this to keep in mind is…
I WENT BACK.