“I didn’t hit you.”
That’s what he says. 
And no, he didn’t.
But that hole in the wall right by my face?
It doesn’t give me confidence he wouldn’t have.
We ignore the near-miss. 
We call it "just a temper."

“I didn’t push you into the wall.”
He admits he pushed. 
Claims it was my fault.
My fault I spoke out of turn. 
My fault I went into the wall.
We ignore the blame shift. 
We call it "just an argument."

Then comes the quiet. 
The sudden, suffocating peace.
"I'm sorry. I promise I'll change. I love you so much."
There are flowers. 
There are expensive grand gestures. 
There are gifts… a watch, a necklace, 
a fleeting moment of pampering.
There is love made with a deceptive, devastating care… 
as if a gentleness between the sheets 
could erase the fear, bruises, and shame.
We hold onto this fragile calm. 
We call it "proof of his love." 
We call it proof he can change.

But the cycle turns. 
The tension returns.
One day, I’m beautiful, wonderful, smart.
The next, when he’s had a bad day?
I’m stupid, a burden, I’m letting myself go.

I'm told my friends are toxic. 
I’m told my family is judgmental.
I’m told to quit my jobs, that he will take care of me—
only to go back because I’m "doing nothing."
He doesn’t tell me he has a tracker in my phone. 
He doesn’t tell me he obsesses over my day-to-day movements. 
He does, however, tell me to keep my phone unlocked. 
He does tell me I’m not allowed to see my friends. 
He does tell me I must cut off communication with all males,
despite the fact they stay in contact with ex-girlfriends behind my back.

This is the control we mistake for care.

I put my phone on silent, 
and all hell breaks loose.
Why didn't I answer his third call? 
"You must be hiding something."
I’m called something different in a text message, 
but I’m the problem.
I'm delusional, making things up.
All the while his "sweetie" has no idea. 
But I know about her.

And somehow, 
I've allowed myself to be conditioned to stay.
I don’t walk away when my mind and heart scream GO!
I start believing this is truly the best I can get. 
The best I deserve.
I start believing I am worthless.

Because that’s when this started, isn't it?
When my worth was set as a child. 
When I was told I would not be believed.
When I was conditioned to believe that love is pain. 
My pain made me special.

We do this because we are trained to see the bruise, 
but not the slow, quiet decay of the soul.
We are taught to accept the apology, 
but not to call out the repeating pattern.
The flowers don't erase the violence. 
The jewelry doesn't fill the hole in the wall.
The red flags are not painted; 
they are waved violently in front of our eyes.
And we are trained to look away.

Stop looking away.