the moon would be nice to see if my vision wasnt always blurred,
wasnt always as swollen as his pride,
which i sometimes respect but not to his standards,
i see him see me and we act accordingly,
but then his blood boils of his past and fears
from eternity from one to another,
but i'm not the another,
nor the one,
just a woman in the mist of a diliema,
his words cut just as deep as his bladen hands,
but i cant leave just yet,
even his passion hurts but it's something about him,
something about how he didnt let me go from that balcony,
soemthing about how he called 911 after he stabbed me,
even though he didnt stay til they came,
something about how he loves me after he beats me,
maybe it was the flowers on wednesdays for no reason
or the visits to his mother's grave,
the bubble baths with candles without him trying to drown me,
i look further than the burns and bruises and scars that some see as his love,
i think i know better,
at least i want to know what would be better,
sometimes i talk to my pillow asking questions
like it's God,
i wonder why my crys and tears are silent beyond these walls,
they've heard me scream for help but wouldnt help,
they've heard my bones crack and break between doors,
they've seen my clothes torn apart,
they've listened to my moans and gasps,
they've touched my head,
let chunks of my hair and head cling to it,
when silence talks to me,
i think about of all the women in this same situation,
how we do the push-pull thing,
push him away to only embrace him stronger,
then have him leave my pullings for more,
i remember those bangings on my door late at night,
me, being teary eyed, starring at him leave on those stromy nights,
wondering why my friends dont like me anymore,
guess they got tired of being my crying shoulder,
knowing i wouldnt listen,
i still havent as he sits between my legs,
i still wonder is it worth it?
but nothing is worth being alone on valentines' day,
is it?