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A vignette of domestic violence and the weird rationale of love amidst such 
circumstances - adapted from how it was depicted to me by a female friend and 
taken from her own personal experience.

I was defined china and porcelain, 
Inlaid glass flowers and gently spoken;
Fragile in doe-eyed delicacy, 
Pleading and begging not to be broken.

I loved him with total forgiveness, 
Did not, could not, would not understand 
The dark chaos mood of lability, 
The spontaneous violence of his hand.

Blue and black bruises indecorously swelled 
Question marks about tear brimmed eyes;
And I wept and despaired in confusion, 
Smashed and grabbed by wherefores and whys.

How could he dream to hurt me so, 
The brutish malediction of his touch?  
How could he stand to hurt me so, 
When he knew I loved him so much?

And now the years have drained away 
Like sweeping veils of rain;
The agony of our breaking apart 
Ever haunts me with anguish and pain.

I still see him some times, 
Rarely, truly out of the blue, 
On the old territory of familiar streets 
When unconsciously passing through.

And always shook by the stalking truth,
A lancing bright-bladed knife,
And with dogmatic aching my heart lets me know
He was always the love of my life.

And I know there's no sense to be had
When I look to the heavens above,
Just the sad and lonely heart of the matter:
You never can choose whom to love.

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