He didn’t hit me
But he collected my infractions
And lined them up on his desk like surgical knives,
Ready to make another incision
Into the little self-worth I had remaining.
He didn’t hit me
But when I refused sex,
He would grab my wrists tightly
Until they tingled of needles,
then went numb
And said that if I really loved him,
I would never say no.
He didn’t hit me
But he went through my phone while I was in the shower
And deleted every contact that was male.
I was a slut.
A whore.
A cunt.
Because I had those numbers in my phone.
If I was to be a good girlfriend,
I could not speak to the opposite sex.
He didn’t hit me
But he would follow me home
And would show up to my work
To make sure I was not lying about where I was going.
He didn’t hit me
But I was not allowed to wear makeup
Because that meant I desired the attention of other men.
And once, when I was brave enough
To brush some lipgloss on,
He punched a hole into his bedroom wall,
Right next to my head
And made me wipe it off.
He didn’t hit me
But the blood in his veins would turn black when he screamed
And I would curl up on the bathroom floor
Sobbing and cowering beneath him
While his hot saliva
Showered onto me.
He didn’t hit me
But when I threatened to leave
He would send a picture of a knife pressed against his throat
Almost piercing his waning skin,
Promising that he would take his own life
And it would be my fault.
He didn’t hit me
My wounds were not visible,
But I still have bruises
That will never go away.
He didn’t hit me
But I become a shell,
And begin to tremble
Every time I hear someone raise their voice.
He didn’t hit me
But I have dreams that he did.
and in those dreams there is blood,
Broken bones,
And bruises.
In my dreams,
There is proof.
So
Much
Fucking
Proof.