Trauma
He marked his control upon the very lips that give him pleasure and onto the hips that bore his oppression. Scars of whipping words that spewed hatreds precious words into the sky. Pushing down the bile that dare passes my lips. Oh, how he wishes to grab control by twisting his fingers into the depths of my hair, lulling strand by strand until I give up control. He forces my surrender by slamming his words just as hard as he slams me into the wall. Trapping me in every aspect of the word. He pushes his limits of so-called love by silencing my will for freedom through endless wonder of pleasure. How simple the word pleasure is with every “Baby, I’m sorry I love you” or “I’m sorry I won’t do that again” or “You know I’m trying, I’m sorry baby”. As the damn tears flow down his face. Luring to open my heart again. All for the sake of love!