When you look at a bruise all you can think about is how long it’ll last. That and maybe how bad it hurt. Or, actually, maybe it’s a combination of both. The look of bruises, the black and blue surrounded by a harsh green-yellow, makes me cringe. They’re a flaw; I don’t like flaws. Yet, they subside. They last minuscule amounts of time if you really think about it. However, why does it seem like I’ll forever feel as though the black and blue you made me will never go away?

There are two versions of me: the one you know and the one you don’t. Some argue the one you don’t will never come back because the damage has already been done; that person is buried beneath the dark shades of blue and blackness of my skin. That bruise–the one that’s the me you know–that’s because of you. I’ve never been able to be a better me because of you. I still wear that blackness on my skin each day because of you. Despite the visible ring, the internal pain is hidden within the shadows of my insecurity.

Once upon a time I loved you; I think I still love you. I couldn’t imagine being happier because I was complete with you; now I’m incomplete without you. But maybe I can’t think of it that way. Maybe I’m better off without you. Once upon a time was a long time ago and that once upon a time never had a happy ending. It wasn’t about the perfect fit of a glass slipper or a true-love’s kiss to wake me from my slumber. Ha. It was nothing like that actually. Every day I took another bite of your poisonous apple. Every night as we crawled into bed I didn’t drift fast asleep counting sheep; I pricked my finger on your spinning wheel of lies, which forced me into a nightmare. It wasn’t my once upon a time, it was yours.

I should have seen it coming. Our year turned as cold as you, which in turn changed me from a person who loved to a person who loathed. As we sat at the bar you’d sneer and stare every time anyone would be caught in my smile. The desperation in your eyes soon became insecurity in your words. I was “stupid” and “flirty” and a “waste of time.” I was “flighty” and “thoughtless” and a “warm body to sleep with each night.” I was “careless” and “shitty” and a “person you thought you knew.” Too bad you were never right about any of those things; too bad I listened to each and every one.

I spent every night with you in your bed. I remember how soft your skin was, except for the nights your soft touch felt like pins and needles. When your nails became knives and my skin became your cutting board. I gave up my friends and myself to keep your cold heart warm. Yet your words never subsided and I was left frostbitten each and every time.

As a year grew longer the end drew nearer. The harsh words left your mouth like a barrage of flying fists. And when your words could no longer sting, your fists actually began to fly. I never knew I could take so much; I still don’t know how I did. I was no longer your sounding board; I was now your punching bag.

I learned not to roll over at night until you finished reading for one of your psychology or human resources classes. If I did, you’d backhand my face. I always waited until you reached over to turn the light off next to the bed to finally breathe, relax and roll over. You put me on the inside, butted up against the wall. I’ve never felt so trapped in a place where I’m supposed to be comfortable. Initially, I took comfort in being close to you. Toward the end, I felt imprisoned both awake and in my sleep. I waited until the light went out because I didn’t want to upset you.  I waited until the light went out because I needed to protect myself.

I always thought I was hurting you when I’d talk to your friends. I felt I annoyed you when I’d fall asleep on your arm while you’d be reading your book or while we were watching a movie you picked out and forced me to watch. Every time you’d yell at me, I thought I was doing you harm. Every time I’d come home to my roommates with bruises, I thought I deserved it.

I was going to marry you. No amount of bruised egos or eyes were going to change how much I loved you. But I didn’t actually love you, or at least not as much as I thought I did. If I did, I wouldn’t have slept with someone else the night we bought our rings. If I really loved you, I would have left a long time ago.

If you loved me, you would have let me pick out restaurants or movies, or let me sleep on the outside. If you really loved me, you would never have left me with bruises that have never healed. If you loved me, you would have let me end it months before.

Even after all of these years I’ve been unable to heal. I can’t commit in fear that what happened before will happen again. We were a relationship destined to fail; it was abusive. I can admit that now, but I can’t accept that so much of me was lost on you. So now I sit and wait for that fairy tale happy ending to finally arrive, but I can’t help but think that my ending will to forever be alone. And I’d be alone because I can’t bring myself to love again because I can’t bring myself to hurt again. I’d be alone because the person I am is not the person others see because you took me from myself.

That day you threw that ring back in my face—the same day I placed it on my finger—was the day I thought it was the end.

It was never the end.

If it were the end I would not be in the situation I am. I am damaged goods. I am bruised.

I am forever black and blue.