A circle

He amuses me.
But He confuses me when he abuses me with the clandestine way he gets away with bruising me as he uses me for illusions see? Like when he accuses me then black and blues-es me it alludes away from his bluesy state of translucent charm with a hard gripped arm marked by post charm syndrome as my face begins to heal and I begin to deal with presence punch and my patience is what keeps me a patient. Waiting in pain like a professional patient.
Is it disgusting that I take pride in these welts and my bleeding scalp? reminders of his excuses to touch me.
to fuck me.
or whats left of me.
He makes me laugh.
He leaves me in stitches. And showed me his philosophy on snitches by literally blessing me with stitches. Calling me all types of bitches in his stagnant snake-like stature with a bitch mode disposition that invited fear inside
like it was a goddamn dinner going on inside of my soul. With no clean bowls and sharp silverware everywhere. He cried over spilt milk which was a direct representation of his milky white guilt that was viscous and thick like shit. His guilt hauntingly dripped off the kitchen table into tiny translucent pools seeping into the wood.
For the better good.
For my sake.
For our sake.
I remain un-raped.
Naked in a romantically inclined air bed. Gave fantastic head like clockwork. Clockwork Orange was more of the mood as he came and tumbled off of my breast cliffs in an abruptly rude way after saying all the romantic things a man could say in one spray of semen he admits his love as he bursts in relief, and i'm in disbelief of how he feels.
And it appeals to me.
And it amuses me.
And it makes me laugh.
A circle.