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.