Love Hurts
“Kiss me,” she says—
her eye swollen, rimmed in red.
“Hold me,”
but not like that.
Not with fear pressed
into every rib.
He doesn’t answer.
Just slams the door.
“He loves me,”
she whispers to no one,
eyes darkening with
each retreating footstep.
Years of apologies
smear her reflection.
Each bruise
a disappearing act.
“He’s just under stress,”
she murmurs,
twins curled at her breast
like unanswered prayers.
“I push him, really.
He doesn’t mean it.”
She says this
with blood on her lips.
Still kneeling.
Still hoping.
He storms in.
“You filthy whore!”
And she flinches—
but not at the words.
At the familiarity.
The fist lands.
Again.
Again.
Like punctuation
on a life not hers.
“Make love to me,”
she begs,
but her body remembers
only impact.
Only art made
from suffering.
Blood spatters.
Scars bloom.
Her body,
a reluctant canvas.
“Surprise me with kindness,”
she thinks.
But bows her head:
“If not,
then beat me—
your highness.”
Somewhere, the children sleep.
Somewhere, a door doesn’t slam.
Somewhere,
love does not hurt.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
