On Monday, our relationship resembled one in a romantic movie.
Your arms lovingly embraced me, your mouth praising my beauty.
On Tuesday, I noticed your grip loosen, your eyes burning bright.
You refused to believe me or let me out of your sight.
On Wednesday, I begged for your permission to go to the store.
That marked the first time I was referred to as a tramp. A whore!
On Thursday, you smashed my phone against the cold, tile floor.
I laid in bed beside a monster, wondering if I could take any more.
On Friday, I expressed the need to take a break from "us."
I vistited the E.R. that night, feeling as if I was hit by a bus.
On Saturday, I recuperated in a hospital bed, inundated with shame.
I was sickened by the mere thought I was playing your game.
On Sunday, you visited, with a revoltingly charming smile adorning your face.
"I love you. I just wanted to keep you in your place."
Do you love me?
Because your lies, manipulation, agression solely show hate.
Do you hate me?
Because your sweet words try to convince me you're my soul mate.
Between your love and your hate, there is no dissimilarity.
Yet, for me, the difference holds great clarity.
Love is allowing your shirt to be soaked with my tears.
Love is quietly listening as I reveal to you my fears.
Love will dissipate all resentment, vexation, woe.
Love is a plant which should never cease to grow.
There are various parts encompassed in this four-letter word.
But, the notion violence is a constituent is utterly absurd.