I don't like how he approaches
With the slimy swagger of 100 roaches.
If he raises his hand to strike my limbs,
Then why do I love him?

His friends gather in bulk, with masks,
They laugh as he brutally attacks.
When I can still feel their sneers,
Why I do hold him near?

His sweat glistens across my bones,
While his hand stifles my screams and moans.
His blood swims in my streams,
While he devours my self-esteem.

I know that it is me he loves,
Even though I am unworthy of
The affection he rarely flaunts,
Or even of his time or taunts.

We will all hurt despite everything.
So I accept every jeering sting.
I am brainwashed to please,
But isn't that part of this love disease?