The first time he hits you,

he cries.

Drops to the floor hugging your legs,

begging you to forgive him.

The tears,

the sobs,

they almost seem too real,

and you’re too naive to know the difference.

He’s done this before,

to the ones before you.

He’ll do it again,

after you are long gone.

He knows what to do,

exactly what to say.

He promises he’ll never do it again.

And now somehow it has become your fault,

that all the blood dripping from your face

has hit the floor.

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