Sorry if this changes me. It’s something I need.

Fifteen,

Running a shower to drown out the sound of my tears as I wash the blood from my teeth,

Screaming in the kitchen, trying to tell him that this isn’t the first time I’ve been beat without actually saying anything,

To explain that this shit doesn’t just feel like a sport to me.

And his fucking response, to sabotage our relationship, to breed enough hatred, that my fists would land with a little more cruelty.

And I guess you succeeded.

Every day, I worked for hours trying to release that anger,

And since then I haven’t put it away,

And since then I haven’t been able to cry.

Beat me in a fight and I just might,

But I really wouldn’t recommend you try.