I.
He loved me with his clenched fists,
but there were times when he found his knuckles too sore to touch me.
It didn't take much to upset him, as his rage fed off of my presence alone.
I knew when to get out of his way, but even then, I wasn't always safe.
Machetes grazed my trembling neck
in an attempt to conjure up the tears that
were already falling down my face.
They met the bruises that our couch had offered me
when he threw my body across the room.
With his drunken breath, he forced me to swallow each obscenity
as if my blood wasn't enough to choke on.
II.
He loved me with his booted feet,
but there were times when his legs were too tired
to put forth the effort to touch me.
I never imagined leaving
because I thought that my love was strong enough to change him.
Without the alcohol and drugs to break his mind, he was all that I adored.
I gasped for air beneath the fingers that coiled around my throat.
As they continued to tighten, his nails embedded into my skin,
slowly breaking away bits of flesh that were once a part of me.
With his veins pumped up on cocaine,
he tried to teach me how to beg for my life
as if I wasn't already dead.
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