• His hands touch my forehead to tell me goodnight, and I hate it. Condescension.
    His hands touch my eyes to clear my makeup, and I hate it. Never good enough.
    His hands touch my nose in a cute little action, just trying to make me smile, and I hate it. I can't smile enough.
    His hands touch my lips, whispering across the space he won't place his own lips, and I hate it.. He doesn't want me.
    His hands touch my neck to soothe the racing heartbeat, and I hate it. I don't have enough control.
    His hands touch my chest to check to see if the drugs he slipped me worked and I hate it. He doesn't care about me.
    He touches my stomach to see if it hurts, like it's supposed to after all the poison he's fed me and I hate it. He doesn't trust me.
    He touches me everywhere to check how much he's made me bleed, and whether or not he'll have to take me to the hospital for it. I HATE IT! I can't handle what he can give me...



    But the sad, secret truth is, I love him because of these honest little touches, these little truths that tell me so much more than the whispered "love you"s that I hear all the time. These little touches tell me so much more about how he feels than when he holds the doors open, or when he buys me roses. When he drags the thorns across my stomach, I love him, because he cares about me enough to show me how much he truly hates me, and I love him because he trusts me enough to tell me the truth, even if he'd never admit it in words.