My response to domestic abuse. Seriously, if you're in a relationship that is abusive-- whether it's physical or emotional or mental or a combination-- get out. They're not going to change. You can't fix them, you can't redeem them; frankly, it's not your job to do so anyway. If you feel that you are in danger, reach out. There are plenty of good programs and organizations out there that can help you.

The idea of perfect love is foreign to me—

If bliss is ignorance, then I am omniscient.

But if I know everything, then why would I ever have gone to you?

All-knowing is not wise, but my young self confused the two.

I saw you through the glass, darkly.

I knew what kind of person you were;

Cruelty lingered around you like cigar smoke

But aren't we all drawn to the wicked and morbid things?

Our relationship was a train wreck:

I threw myself in front of you, and I was left the corpse on the tracks.

Jumper, I am— emotions first, then feet, leaving it too late for the brain

That's how I met you.

You, the chameleon, changing from doting lover in public to rabid beast at home

Foolishly, I loved you, even after the thousandth apology.

Foolishly, I stayed with you, clinging to the hope that you would change.

Deep down, I knew you would not. Your kind never do.

My mottled flesh, the scar above my eye—

You never meant to do it, you said.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry

But not as sorry as I, who drank your lies like nectar.

And I know what you thought of me:

Lamb, pushing my throat onto your blade.

Martyr, condemning myself to slow death by my own volition.

Prey, to be savored slowly by a jackal like you.

Trinkets and gifts, bribes rather than tokens of affection

That kept the hood over my head.

Cuts and fingerprints, the passion of rage rather than love

That opened my eyes to what I had known all along.

When we first met, it seemed that there was no world for you but me.

Your hands in my hair, your touch against my heart—

Better to have not loved than to love and lose it all,

Because how you changed after those first months.

It was I who put myself on the pyre,

It was you who struck the match and listened to my cries.

But then, you would always say differently—

Well, darling, to our relationship, I have to say: memento mori.