What is love?

Is it when I can see the handprint-shaped bruise of where his skin collided with mine?
Branding me as his own,
claiming me so no other man will.

Is it flinching when any other man raises his hand?
Afraid that they too will pound into me the thought of their so everlasting love?

Is it crying in the empty bed for the third time this week?
I told myself I'd get over feeling this way,
but the echoes of memories in the room remind me otherwise.

Is it hearing the booming knock at the door,
only to see the man I thought I knew detonate the door?
As his lips brush mine I can smell the vodka in his breath.
I don't bother asking where he's been.

Is it seeing the smashed bottle on the ground
and not wanting to clean it up?
A new one will just take its place.
What's the use of fixing this broken mess when I too am broken.
How can you fix something that's broken when you are broken yourself?

Is it hearing the angry voice that one soothed me to sleep
in my nightmares?
The raspy booming of his voice jolting me awake,
as I vow to myself to never sleep again,
even though I feel more alive
in even the worst of my nightmares.

Is it him saying ‘just one more sip’ and knowing that means 10 more?
Nothing can quench his everlasting thirst.
I could give him the world and he would still desire more.

Is it getting the call about the car crash on the highway?
Rushing to the site, waiting for him to appear.
The police found a bottle of vodka in the car.
I will not cry, I tell myself.
The police tell me his blood alcohol content
was four times the legal limit.
I will not cry.
The police tell me he cannot be saved.
I will not cry.

Is it wondering what he thought about in his last few seconds?
If he thought about me?
I can't even remember the last words we said to each other.

Is it me feeling guilty for not stopping him from destroying himself?
Wondering if I am to blame?
After all, I can still see the handprint-shaped bruise
where his skin collided with mine.