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How can I expect someone broken to fix me?
Maybe because there’s no choice.
Maybe because he’s just good with words.
The real reason is that he hurts me the way I want.
Bruised lips, black eyes, fractured wrists, and a whole recipe of pain. This is what I know as love.
He promises to change, and lay kisses softly like gossamer on the places he has bruised and broken.
And that’s when I know that everything will be okay. That he still loves me.
Yet nothing much has changed, because I know, and that is why I still asleep with the light on.
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