It Didn't Feel Like Abuse


United States

He spit ink into my throat,
told me it would soothe
the ache I felt.
It wasn't until a week later,
when my lungs collapsed,
that I realized he was hurting me.

How was I supposed to know?
His hands, baby-butt soft and lingering
on my lower back
did not alarm terror in me.
His voice,
dripping with authenticity
had never made me question
his intent.

If I am to be force-fed love,
perhaps it is not so.
Love is not spoon-feeding and deception,
is not fake smiles and abyssal eyes.

Love is giving up your own happy,
your own warm spot
so someone else won't shiver.
Love is voluntary,
it is yearning to care for another
because you simply can't deal
with knowing they're in pain.

I don't remember learning this divide -
what is abuse and what is love -
but now that it's clear to me,
I will never fall suit to his
baby-butt soft
ever again.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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