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The first time he hits me, I don’t leave

I’azine articles and books, I can see Oprah watching with her disappointed-yet-understanding face, hear the mantra everyone choruses from the sidelines, but they aren’t me They don’t understand

They aren’t fresh froement parties, the ink barely dry on the announce into a five-bedroohborhood in town, still picking out drapes and a confetti of paint samples

They aren’t twenty-six, the last of their sorority sisters to finally get the ring, the man, the stamped seal of approval that no, it’s not too late, the desperate panic in my chest can finally fade: I haven’t missed my chance I can have a family of my own I won’t be alone

Besides, I tell rabbed me hard, sure, but I was the one who lost ized, said he was stressed froht It was my fault, too

So I stay

The second time he hits me, it’s a back-handed crack across the side of h every bone inhold ofI thought was safe shatters into a million pieces

I taste blood, ht And I know, this time, I can’t marry him

I take a shaking breath and forcemy hand to the tender flesh just back fros to the touch, and I know there’ll be aleft inhow I can hide it, with six guests waiting in the living room downstairs, and four courses still to serve

I should be hurt, or scared, or angry But I don’t feel anything at all

I don’t love hiuess I never did