Dirty Tears

He held me when I cried, he helped me find my feet when I thought I’d never stand again, he fought for me, he loved me tenderly, he loved me sweet, he loved me in the ways that only true love ever can. We fought. We compromised. We met in the middle, met on his side, and met on mine. We’d hurt each other and apologize and then learn what pathways were booby trapped with deep dark fears and deep dark trauma. I told him my deepest darkest fears. He became my safe place.

He took us to dinner, bought us ice cream to share afterwards, and we went for a walk in the park.

As we were walking home, laughing at one of the many funny stories our lives had afforded us to collect, his face changed.

He grabbed my hand, whipping me around to face him and he took. He took what I never said he could have. He took my safe place. He took my confidence. He took my thankfulness. He took my laughter and the light in my eyes.

And when he was done taking, he apologized, cried, and then asked what movie I wanted to watch when we got back to the house.

He embraced me, breathing deeply and exhaling, and when we got home he took some more.

I cried, beat the walls with my fists, became a hatred so deep.

I feared for my sanity.

But somehow,

he made my tears dirtier than his actions.