Four Years

I was like a dog, missing him when he was not home. A day without him felt like an eternity. I needed to write down how much he meant to me, how much I needed him to complete me and my meager existence.

It took all day to write the poem.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It’s for you," I said, as hopeful and shy as a child gifting her artwork. It had meant so much to me.

He stared at it, his lips moving slowly, his head tilted to one side.

"What does it mean," he said finally and I snatched the paper from his grip. 

He yelled out and there was blood on his finger where the paper cut. 

"What the hell," he said. "Psychotic bitch."

I lashed out at him and he punched me in the stomach and I doubled over, gasping for air, hands clutching my stomach in an attempt to contain the fire.

"Fuck," he said. "I’m sorry, babe."

He moved forward, hands outstretched, and I hissed at him, a wild cat snarl that sounded strangled from my vocal cords and he stopped. I turned around, still half-bent, and walked into our bedroom like an old crone and lay down on the bed. 

I hurt all over.

The poem stayed crumpled in my fist.