He loves me.
My foot begins to hurt, and I remember that time when I twisted my ankle and he carried me home.
He loves me.
My cheek is cut, and it bleeds all over my torn white jacket. The jacket he bought for me when we went to New York together and I saw it but I couldn't afford it.
He loves me.
My wrist hurts, and I remember back when he paid my hospital bills when I broke my arm, because I was too broke and too stressed.
I look at the bruises on my stomach, and I remember how he used to take me to dinner every Friday night and wear the most expensive suit he owned.
He loves me.
I know he does.
I ignore the pain in my ribs, tell myself he's been under huge stress recently, and it's all just a phase. It'll pass soon.
It's my fault anyway. Maybe if I'd made the dinner on time he wouldn't have had to punch me, maybe if I hadn't talked the that guy in town he wouldn't have felt the need to kick me so hard.
He still loves me.
He's gone now. I can't get up. I'm too weak. I'll just wait here until he gets home. Maybe he'll help me up, treat the wounds, make me dinner. Maybe he'll treat me like his princess again.
Maybe not.
He wasn't like this at the start. He won't be like this forever. This isn't him. It's just a phase. He never meant to hurt me.
He still loves me.
