I wish your words cut like knives. Tearing open my innocent flesh, So that I could see you were a monster. I would have stood a chance. I wish your touch left bruises. My battered body could have matched my broken soul. Skin painted black and purple means run. But I stayed. I wish your kisses were daggers, I would not have mistaken it for love It was a dark, dark hellish force, With the smile of a saint. I wish it was “bad”. The shame wouldn’t live in my body, The guilt wouldn’t eat me alive. But it’s never “bad” enough, is it?