Creative Writing Love

Stockholm Syndrome And This Thing Called Love

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 sleep with the light on.

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