is it supposed to be like this?

The scab has just finally fallen off today but every time I catch a glimpse of my forehead in the mirror all I see is him. It didn’t bleed that day but I’m amazed at how it cut deep. Sometimes I think it was better it didn’t bleed. Would he have hit me more?

I cut my already falling hair shorter in a style that covered my forehead so that it wouldn’t catch attention. It hasn’t left such a significant scar. And I let out a sigh of relief. No questions would be asked now unlike when it was fresh.

. All this for the price of a kiss and a hug and hoping everything will be okay.

I think a part of me has died.

No one told me Love was supposed to be like this.


Do you Ever?

Listen to the words that come out of your mouth? Understand their consequences? Look Beyond your Myopia? Choose anyone but yourself? comprehend what your terrible attitude does to me? Try to understand what I am going through? Realise that same time next week, next month I could be Dead? See how you are killing me, my spirit? Feel any remorse for the things you have done to me? Think before you hit, spit, humiliate me? Cherish the moments we have spent together? My life is worth more than your “spare change” that “hardly fit into your pockets” Here I am torn with the idea that I don’t know how much time I have with mummy, baby and even you, but you never lost an opportunity to tell me how splendidly you are and can manage without me. How replaceable I am. Who does that? Who does that knowingly? I am not looking for pity, not for sympathy neither am I looking for empathy. I met you today, because you wanted to meet me. And I was stupid enough, like always to think that maybe, just maybe you’d have grown a bit of a mature spine, but no. Sometimes I think, maybe you don’t love me so you cannot understand that one can actually be happy for someone you love. If you’re happy, I am happy for you. It is that simple. But you will twist it in the most toxic way you know best and shove it down my throat, rub my face in it till it burns and all I am left thinking is why? Stop trying to make me feel like it is always my fault. That I am the one to blame for your terrible attitude, your irresponsible thoughts and careless actions. I have loved you. You choose to believe otherwise. Purposely sabotage our relationship and convince yourself how terrible I am. You do what you think best. But I have given you my all, whatever little it is. And you equate my life with spare change. How can anyone say that to anybody. I wanted to walk out of there right then. And I curse myself why do I choose to see beyond who you continually choose to be. Why do I wait for those few and far between moments where I catch a glimpse of you, M, the real you and not your ego, you love so much. I am tired. I am torn. I do not deserve this. Today was not my fault. I apologise but all you do is punish. punish. punish. You get a high out of this. It isn’t normal. You are making money? Good! Why do you ask me “do you want to see my ledger” like a two-year-old saying I have more than you. This evening was all about how much more you have than me. How fuller your life is than mine. Is this how cultured your mind is? Really? Or are you having a hard time accepting reality that this is your escape? I am not going to give myself any more excuses for your behaviour. Yet you remained so calm and collected through it all? do you rehearse? do you really get pleasure from cutting me open? WHY? Live, M. Please Live. You have no idea what you are doing. Just don’t. You are more than this. I know it, I have felt it, believed in it. Please Live. And let Live.

The last things.

A flashback before your eyes – that’s what the books always say. The last thing I thought of while I lay stark naked in the radiology cabin today before they spoke to each of the tumours individually – a warning, a time-line and a deadline and so forth – so the last thing I think of and mumble in my head was please let me be the last girl he hits. Please let me be the last girl he spits on. Please let me be the last girl who has to continually prove her love to him.  Please let him be happy. Please let him be open to life. Please let him never know how short life is. Please let him know love. Please take away his anger. Who the fuck was I praying to ?


I’ve been reading too much of F Scott Fitzgerald so humour me as I quote: