The Stranger In My House

Tell your story, tell your story. They always told me when I told them what he did to me. They all first looked at me with doubt, thinking I made everything up. Sometimes I think I did too. Oh, then the pity comes in. They all start to pity me when I show them the scars. They spur apologies when I show them the fresh bruises. Tears swells in their eyes when they see literal bite marks on my skin. Yeah, bite marks. I did not stutter. He calls me Rosie. I have always hated that stupid nickname and he damn right knows that. He is wicked. He is the devil. He is the very personification of trauma. He is my dear husband. My soulmate. How can you love someone that brings you literal hell? How can you love someone that treats you like trash? And not even the recyclable kind. How can—you know what? Forget it. I just don’t freaking know.