Ours wasn’t a violent relationship. Not really. Not the bruises, black-eyes and broken bones type. Little bruises where fingers dug too tight around an arm or neck, a time or two. Nothing to get all in a tizzy about.

Being a clutz of epic proportions, I give myself more cuts, scrapes, bruises and burns than he ever did.

And it was mostly more loud than physical, when we got to fighting. Which really wasn’t often. Not the out-loud kind of fighting anyway.

Yes, I know that is abuse today.

I didn’t then. Or maybe I did. But you know, it was mostly just words. You don’t just go to a shelter cause your sick of getting shouted at.

Even after you know it’s wrong. Even after you kind of start to feel like maybe you really don’t deserve it. Even when you start believing that maybe life can be better than this…


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