He says he loves the rain,
but he opens an umbrella.
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He says he loves the sun,
but he finds a shady spot.
He says he loves the wind,
but he closes his windows when it blows.
That's why I'm afraid when he says he loves me.
because I know that I'll never escape my turmoil until I escape him.
But this mock stockholm syndrome has sunk its claws in deep and refuses to let me go.
Even if it does, the blood loss will keep me from crawling far.
I will probably die at his feet.
My fingertips outstretched towards freedom and the light.
But I will never touch it.
I know this as i succumb everytime.
and now when he hits me it feels like a kiss
I assume I'll be the one he turns to in 10-15 years, after so many years of torture when his body begins to break down.
He'll return apologetic, and I'll accept him without a doubt.
That seems the most likely end to our 'love' story.
Me dropping everything and doing anything, devoted as a dog, whilst he takes and takes and takes.
