He thinks he knows why I cry,
As he cradles me in his arms-
The damage done by his own hand
Perhaps pressing lightly onto his conscience.
But no –
He grips me tighter,
Scolding me, warning me,
Time for tears is running out.
I try to still my sobs.

His lips crash against mine,
Rough, Unapologetic,
Daring me to protest.
One hand that caresses my face,
The other slipping down my arm
Carving fresh marks into my skin.
Over the blossoming shades
Of blue and violet and dark indigo
Splayed across my fair skin.

He is gentler now, though it is too late.
His eyes betray a shard of regret,
A fragment of self-hatred,
Hypnotizing my emotions to coincide with his,
To soothe him, forgive him,
Though I secretly tell myself he’ll change.
He softly kisses my cuts and bruises,
My countless scars from our past.
The weak lies I tell myself keep me conscious.
Like a child grips a dandelion
In hopes of earning a wish with one breath,
I cling to the tiny sliver of hope in my dreams,
Praying that it lies somewhere ahead
For I haven’t found it in the dark past behind me.

I am not crying for the past,
And all I have had to endure.
I am crying for the future
And my looming fate unsure.