He beat her until black and blue and
purple, so she left him, and then
faithfully scurried
back for more. She can hit back
if she likes, she argues. Well, she
can, but he just laughs aloud. I
watch her retreating
gratefully, respectfully, into his
luke-warm embrace, her shelter from
oblivion or
liberation, or
proper happiness. She patiently awaits his death,
and psychotherapy.
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