The first time you ever held my hand,

You were brimming with a sloshy, overflowing red.

The kind one can mistake for a bashful blush,

Had it not been for your crushing grip.

I met you when you were the kind of boy

To pull on girls' hair, and tug on bra straps,

In the name of adolescent love.

And you met me when I was the kind of girl

That felt guilty when rejecting others

Because what of their feelings?

And ignore my own—

Continuously.

I thought:

You could change.

People are not inherently bad,

And men are not born evil.

I was right, in the end.

I watched a change unfurl in you,

Like the blossoming of a lotus;

An eternal love, a perservering adoration.

But your love was not for me, but for

The thrill I gave you.

Does submission feel good?

It felt like Hell to me,

But I liked you, I think.

Enough for the palm of your hand

As it collides with my cheek

To feel like a kiss,

Rather than the hit it was.

You grew into a man I believed I didn't recognize,

But I did.

I did,

I did, I did, I did—

Because even as a boy,

You were like sandpaper:

Harsh, and grainy.

Your aggression is no stranger,

And I wish I had told your mother

That you grew into a husk of your father.

I tried to convince myself,

Men are not born evil.

But when does a man become a monster?