He started changing, like how snow turns to water and then nothing. He became more distant, more rude and unamused to things around him. He started talking to me less and when he did talk, he didn't really have a lot to say. Things had felt off for a month or two. He told me he cheated and I never looked at him the same. Or maybe I did. Maybe I kept trying to convince myself that this man loved me and that he wouldn't do it again, that it was a mistake. That he'd feel guilty every time he saw me or spoke to me and that's why he had kept his distance. That when he was slamming his hands through things it was just him getting anger out and things would be okay.
But it wasn't. The wall started to have too many holes. Women blossomed with black and blue bruises, crying to themselves asking 'how could he do this to me?' We all thought he would change, yet every time he'd whisper in our ears "I'm sorry baby, I won't do it again" and we were dumb. We ran back to him. We looked at him as though he was the reason that the stars were in the sky. That he was the one that took all my pain away when in reality he was the one that caused it. I should have left sooner. We were bad for each other. Rather he was bad for me. We made no sense for each other. The idea that we were so capable of love and yet we still chose to be toxic. I used to think that leaving was the most that it would hurt, but sticking around, it was worse.
