You’re drunk again. Not really aware of what you’re even doing. I’m in pain. My leg and back burning like an intense fire. You “playfully” hit me in the leg, it sent electrical jolts through me and brought tears to my eyes. I told you not to hit me, it’s just too painful. You just laugh and continue your game. When I get angry and finally hit you back you get enraged. You begin your nightly ritual of belittling me. I can’t take it. I try to ignore you, I try to put up a front and pretend it doesn’t bother me, but it does. You cut me deep and I let you. I let you do it over and over again. I hate myself for it. I hate that I love you. I shouldn’t love you. You disrespect me more than any person ever has. You always tell me you don’t mean it, but you say it so many times I believe you do. I think you say you don’t mean it as a way to keep me on the hook to serve whatever purpose it is you have for me.
Night after night it’s the same fucking thing. I’m so broken. You’ve broken me. You win. Game over.
I convinced you to call Marty, it’s the only way I can divert your attention and get you back off of me. You make sure to get my attention and shoot the middle finger at me several times. Thanks.
I have voice recordings of you when you verbally attack me. Hours and hours of recordings. Sometimes I ride in the car and just listen to them. I remind myself that you don’t love me or care about me. I listen to try and become numb. To prepare myself for what’s coming. It never works.
I’m waiting for the day when I can turn it off the way you do. Become hardened and unfeeling. Then you won’t be able to hurt me anymore.
As much as I hate all of that, I still fucking love you. All I wait for is a moment of tenderness from you. Something real. Something sweet. It never comes.
I lost you. You’re here, but you aren’t really. You exist here, but you aren’t with me. We aren’t together, not really.
I’ll keep waiting.