My favourite colours became the slap marks you left on my face, and I wore them pretty well.
You were different.
You were a different specie.
You were a different specie of animal.
I pleaded and prayed.
You preyed and showed no mercy.
You killed me every time you opened your mouth.
The words of your mouth pierced even to the dividing asunder of my spirit, soul…and finally, my body.
You killed me every time you raised the weapon decorated with claws, that you called a hand.
Every day, you squeezed life slowly out of me, with the paw you wore your ring on.
You killed me even more brutally when you apologized.
“Forgive me. I’m not perfect. I’m only human”
No! You were a “hued-man”
Your favourite colour became the red stains of my blood that you wore with each blow to my face.
Still, I pleaded and stayed.
Not because of you. Definitely not you.
But because of them.
The little creations we made together,
That kept asking questions that I couldn’t bear to answer.
“Mummy, what happened to your face?”
“Oh! I swallowed a nail!”
Because it sure felt that way.
Swallowing and smiling; that was my story.
I was covering up your sins that wouldn’t wash away with my blood; I wasn’t Jesus and you needed Him.
Then it happened.
I didn’t mean it to.
But it did.
That day, I warned you not to hit me.
I told you I had gotten to my breaking point.
But you did.
You still did.
And I grabbed the cold lethal weapon and with my final strength, I drove it into your chest.
I watched you fight for your life, with tears streaming down my face and blood running down your body; that was all I could take.
I looked at your dying self, reminding you of all the years of battery, hoping they all came flashing through your eyes.
Reminding you of the days you murdered my body and soul; the days you threw my love back in my face.
And then you slumped.
With your final breath, you muttered what I was tired of hearing.
You probably meant it this time, but I wouldn’t know.
Dedicated to women whose mental health has been affected due to domestic violence