I used to curl up at your feet, not out of subservience, but you always said you got cold feet.

I thought that if things could be easier for you, you’d make things easier on me.
I was wrong.

The first time you hit me, there were knuckle shaped bruises on my stomach for days.

I would bind my own chest up tightly, blame the pain, the bruises, the breath, or lack there of, on that.

I molded myself into such a small shape, all jagged and angular pieces.

We never fought, or rather, I never fought back.

One night, you clasped your hand around my neck so tight, I saw white. I’d never felt so close to the stars.

There were whispers, accusations that were sewn into my skin, of horrible things you would say I had done. I carried my heartache close to my chest, cradled it, like a little child.

When you finally released me, I was able to breath again. Clean air, didn’t feel right within my lungs. It felt like poison, I wanted to scratch the blood out of my own veins.

For years, I couldn’t claim this monster inside me, I hid from it, like playing hide and seek. I would pretend I was misremembering the events, as if I wasn’t truly hurting.

Now I know, what you chose to do, wasn’t my fault. And loving myself today, isn’t a mistake.