If this is wrong, then I’ll write.
The bruises speak for themselves. Bowls are broken, glass is everywhere. The sledge hammer is lying next to the once nicely tiled sink. She sits in the bathtub fully clothed with a glass full of whiskey, wanting everything she hates. Hoping that smashing a few dishes will cause him even a fraction of the pain she feels. Wanting the man she loves to hold her while simultaneously being repulsed by his lies, his touch, and the dirty underwear she doesn’t recognize lying next to his bed. At her worst, yet holding on to everything she wishes had been over months ago. Surrealism at its finest.
How did we end up here? How do the late night embraces and morning smiles allow us to forget all the we are and want to be? Why do we keep pretending? What are we fighting for? If this is love than I don’t want it.
Love should not hurt. Love is not jealous. Love is not violent. Love does not lie. Love is not tears.
Love is honesty. Love is acceptance. Love is beauty. Love is trust. Love is everything.
Time heals all they say. She’ll be okay eventually, she always has been. Put a smile on and carry on. Without the bad we can’t appreciate the good.
But god it hurts like hell.