bruises don't lie

⚠ domestic abuse

This one burns as I write it~
but it has to be exorcised.

I had coffee with a friend this morning.
She showed me her bruises.
Not just the emotional ones this time~
deep purple blooming on her arms.
She swore it was the end.
But I’ve heard that before~
from me.
And from another friend,
whose marriage ended when her face was so broken,
she wasn’t pretty enough to keep him anymore.

I told her: Take a picture.
Keep it for when you forget and want to go back.

I knew to say that because I had done it myself.
I came home and pulled out my own photo from the vault~
the box where I keep my AA chips, lucky charms, scraps of proof I survived.

The reminder.
That it got ugly.
That it got dark.

My abuser was also my dealer.
And anyone in the throes of addiction knows~
it’s nearly impossible to leave
when your fix and your fear
live in the same body.

Co-dependency is an addiction.
Drugs kill.
Alcohol kills.
And yes ~ so can his fist.

But I’m not writing this for my friend.
I’m writing this for me, who barely survived.
And for you ~ if you know this place.
If you’ve run and you’re healing.
If you’re figuring out how to.
If you’re praying someone you love makes it out alive.

My gut punch?
He was sweet at first.
They always are.
They never look like rage.
Not at the beginning.

Or maybe we see it ~ we feel their pain ~ and that’s the hook.
Because we’ve been trying to fix our wounded childhoods
through men who echo the same goddamn wounds.

They do love us, in their way.
So much they want to cage us.
So much that when we disobey, they rage~
with a fist, a slap, a weapon, a grip too tight.
And sometimes we convince ourselves it’s love.
We bargain with ourselves, with our families, with the truth.

We hide it.
Scarves, makeup, lies.
Turtlenecks in July.
We bury it until the next time.

And there is always a next time.

“’Till death do us part” traces back to Matthew 19:4-6:
“What therefore God has joined together, let not man separate.”

But let’s cut through the sanctified bullshit.

If you’re staying because religion told you to,
because your parents guilt-trip you,
because the money or drugs chain you,
because he’s as sweet as he is cruel,
because the vows still haunt you ~

hear me clearly:

God. Does. Not. Want. You. Dead.

A marriage can be loving, messy, worth fighting for ~
but when it turns abusive,
when words become weapons,
when your spirit starts shrinking,
when hand hits face ~
Please. Save yourself.
Tell a friend.
Make a plan.
You matter.

You are loved ~ by God.
And by me.

🖤
Cyn

I don’t need a coffee. Not today.
I need you to send this to a friend who might need it.