because he can

This morning he touched my cheek

with tenderness

where he had bruised it last night.

Didn’t notice the purple mark

left by his rage.

Then he gently closed the door.

Each day I move

ever deeper

into my mind space,

hug myself with insubstantial arms

intent on healing the wounded me,

build shock absorbers.

Sucker, martyr, victim, wretch?

The psychiatrist lady insists

I’m seeking punishment for unimagined sins,

but I think he abuses

because he can.