Its masochism, probably.
Love, a feeling I had grown up imagining to be as the books described it. Gentle, fuzzy, warm with a few pricks along the way. I don't really understand my thoughts before I met you, but I knew my past self would have escaped from your grips by now and ran. Ran with all her might to save her delicate delicate self.
I've come to except myself now. Every day I wait behind bolted doors for your return. Every day I watch for you through barred windows. Every day I listen for your routinely calls. Every day I contain my patience in our bugged room.
The silence washes over our apartment, and I sit on our table, your meal set neatly on the opposite end. And then I hear the jingling of your keys, the sliding of a door, and I cant help light up.
Every day I tremble in the corner, as you tower over me, your voice fills up the emptiness. Everyday I curl up because your blows strike hard. Every day food is splattered. Every day I cant turn in my bed, new cuts covering old bruises. It hurts. Its painful. Maybe I am wrong, and I am, I know.
But I cant bring myself to leave. How can I leave the one I love?
You are a monster. And I am your prisoner.