I would look at him just before he would hit me.
And I would see a glimpse of what he was before.
The goofy smiles and heartwarming words and I would think maybe after this hit, he'll stop.
But he never did.
And I was the pathetic little bitch that stayed.
Sometimes when I was hiding from him, I would think back to my life before I met him. Cold.
But never as cold as when his hands wrapped around my throat.
I'm sorry I think I've said too much.
YOU ARE READING
Cold
Short Story#27- flowers 11/21/18 #748- poetry We had this sick fantasy that we could be in love forever. That no one could tear us apart. Well, except ourselves.