don’t come home to me with
blood on your hands.
It makes you seem
too much a beast
and not enough my man.

I see a twinkling in your eyes,
your whole face lights up
when you think my truth
lies.

Every day, you accuse me.
To say the least
verbally/mentally/emotionally
I feel you abuse me.

Though you claim not to be able
to restrain yourself in anger,
I know that it’s then
that you’re the most sincere.
And what you really think of me
is made perfectly clear.

You fucking hate me.
No matter how you deny,
the things that you say to me
are the reasons I know why.