I am the alcohol on his breath and the anger that rolls off him in waves.
I am thick sweatshirts in July and that time my mom told me to stop wearing so much foundation so she could see my "pretty skin."
I am the tears in his eyes as he cries into my shoulder, the "I'm sorry" that always follows.
I am the smile on my little sisters face when she draws me a picture of an elephant in purple crayon because "purple must be your favorite color, I see it under your sweaters all the time!"
I am the annual family pool party I haven't been to in 2 years because I can't find a concealer strong enough to survive the chlorination.
I am the nights I stay up regretting not going to medical school because if I was a nurse I would have already known how to stitch up an open wound.
I am the knowing look I got from my best friend last Christmas when her gift to me was a can of hot pink pepper spray.
I am the nights that he looks at Jack, Jim, and Jose with more adoration than when he looks at me.
I am the hole that is the size of my head in our drywall because dinner wasn't ready when he got home.
I am the poster girl for "domestic violence."
I am everything I swore never to become.
But mostly, I am still in love with him.
Love is meant to hurt, right?