I roll over, my face contorted; tear stained and red.
I hold on to myself; grip my arms, curl up my legs.
Instead I choke on my tears as my throat begins to close.
My nails dig canyons into my arms.
The alarm clock whispers to me, telling me how late it is with the gentle flashing of its red lights.
You kiss me sloppily; alcohol on your breath, perfume on your clothes.
I try to feel. Feel something, anything.
Any love left was gone and I writhed in pain.
I remember the night that you had come home angry, you shoved me down, pulled open my legs; you let me know how angry you were with each thrust of the shovel that dug my grave.
I would sponge at my wounds in the bathroom, cover the teeth marks and gashes on my skin; my breasts, my arms.
You think I’m running with you, praising you and you bite my breasts.
I lay down for you, because it is the only way you love me; the only way that you want to love me.