I thought it was love,

the slaps my father gave my mother,
the screams that followed.

I thought it was love,
the belt marks on her body,
the pain he engraved.

I thought it was love,
the way he held her hair,
dragged her to his room,
forced himself on her.

My mother stood soulless,
blank eyes, empty stare.
I asked if father loved us,
she said, "He loves us so much,"
with a touch that was motherly,
but a heart that was crushed.

I thought that's what love was,
pampering in the morning,
pain at night.