The Butterflies Are Broken Again

The boy on top of me says he loves me.
He holds me down because he loves me.
He grabs my throat because he loves me.
He screams at me, and, he loves me.
I want to scratch him with my wedding ring.
I want to kick at him, but think of the damage back.
My lungs scream as if they have a cause, as if to say, get me out of here.
But. He loves me.

When he packs his things I stare at the broken glass on the floor.
My wrists burn.
The police officer asks, do you think he will kill you?
But. He loves me.
The only reminder of him are the dishes, still clean and tightly packed in the dishwasher.
I do not touch them.
I eat my food out of cups.

The light shining on me is checking for bruises.
In another language, bruises mean love, right?
In the most dangerous language, a language taught over years.

I change the locks.
I sleep with the lights on.
I move at every noise.
In between two people, far away, I am wide awake, the image of him screaming at me taunting my mind.

I am afraid he will find me.
And tell me he loves me.

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