At the age of 4, I watched him violently throw her on the bed.
She cried, she begged.
Later, she told me she loved him, ignoring the blood and bruises that coloured her face.

At the age of 9, I thought he was my friend.
He was my bestfriend.
So why did he touch me the way he did, I didn't undertsand. He always got angry when I fought back.

At the age of 13, I knew more, but obviously not enough.
The cigarette burns on my back, the small bruises on my legs stopped hurting after a while.
Mum said she'd protect me. But it was my own fault. All my own fault. She begged me not to make him mad.

At the age of 16, there was someone else and he loved me.
He kissed each scar on my body. He thought they were beautiful. He thought I was beautiful.
He pomised never to leave, and never to hurt me. His dark eyes were the only things that stopped me when I'd thought I'd had enough.

In the end, all promises were broken.
Mum didn't love him, she was too scared. 
My bestfriend didn't understand, he hurt me. He hit me.
Dad didn't like what he saw in me. Told me I was nothing. I am nothing.
Love isn't all it was painted to be. He lied. He took what he wanted, then left me. In pain and in tears.