You left me with your last set of bruises, but still told me you loved me in the morning.
You made me a necklace of broken blood vessels, and demanded for thoughts that started in my desperate apologies and ended in mouthfuls of blood and shame, but you still held me when we slept in the same bed for the last time
I shouldn’t have stayed, but I loved you so much and you told me you loved me, and I was so naive that that was enough to make it okay. When people asked why I didn’t leave you, I always have said that it is impossible for me to leave someone that loves me. Because I dismissed the fact that you were dark and cold, and I lied to myself when I took you for an angel walking in the skin of a beautiful boy.
Even still, I can’t ever deny that falling for you was as breath taking as your blows. You and I were so perfect for each other in our laughter between kisses, and in your breakfasts and bouquets and when you carried me into bed after our long Friday nights after football games. But your love came with a price that left me aching. My wrists branded with bruises told me I was yours, and you showed me an aggression I foolishly translated to the language of love and war. And I learned that all is fair in love and war.
But after four years of trying to forget you and your blue eyes and wavy hair and your charming half smile, my love for you didn’t die under makeup and excuses. It didn’t cut off like my summer’s tanlines. It was slow and painful to let you go because you left more marks on me than what could have healed in a week. Some that made me smile so much it hurt, and some that made me wish I could go back in time just so I could feel the butterflies. But my love for you has started to die in the person that I realized I should have loved with such ferocity - and that person was me.