Pain is a gift, you said,

to teach us love for life. You said

I was too willful; no one could love me

but you. You said I was your helpmate

​

created from your rib

and that my arguments against it

were with God, not you. You said

the black beneath my eye

was my own fault. You were just

helping me to understand.

You said I was too willful.

You said no one else cared

enough to show me love. You said

anger came from love.

You said you were always

right in what you said. You said

​

you loved me

when you hit and kicked and slapped

and punched and degraded and pinched

and burned me with your cigarette.

The lies hurt worse.