From the dining table

We sit in defining scilence across the dining table

He doesn't bare to look me in the eye while I recite the tragic event that stakes it's claim in the from of 'domestic abuse survivor' 

He tells me I'll be 'fine' that he'd 'never let anything happen to me' but how can he be so sure? 

how can he possibly issure my safety when a panic attack occurs on my behalf, hearing two boystrus lads play fight in the city Square while we shop hand In hand? 

How can he fight away my ex abuser when he forms himself in the scariest shadows of my dreams? 

How can he console my shivering body after a flash back and know that his constant luls of 'you'll be ok' are his spoken truth? 

My life is a shitty job that he has never been poor enough to have to keep

My heart is a deep ruited artery cut that can't be fixed by his dollar store bandaids

He doesn't and never will understand my pain, and I selfishly envie him for that

I envie him for his ability to sleep all night , or to be able to use a public restroom alone

He's never had to watch his back, or pay close attention to the darkest shadows of the room, in fear of the big bad monster 

I bleed and I bruise, I cry and I scream, and I feel amence guilt for begging him not to leave me alone in a public restaurant, even though I know he's desperate to hit the restroom

My grief causes second hand grief to a man not worthy of a broken piece of glass like I

But he stays 

He says he loves me
He says he needs me as much as i tell him I need Him too

He holds me in his arms and he tells me that I'll 'be ok'

that he 'wont let anybody hurt' me 

And until I find the urge to do otherwise, I simply nod in submissive scilence, praying that one day  I'll believe him as much as I know he believes in me.