Dead Eyes.

I was always told that my eyes were my best features.
In fact, people always commented on how they change shades of blue depending on what colour I am wearing.
Or how they can be outlined with eye liner or left naked and either way looks quite alright.
Some people even had the confidence to tell me that I smiled more from my eyes and not so much with my mouth at all.
All of which we nice compliments, but I wonder if they noticed when the light in my eyes started to dim, because,  if the truth be told, no body commented on my eyes when they were filled to the very edge with tears.
No body acknowledged the fact that my eyes had the ability to completely drown without ever letting one single drop slip down my face.
No body ever said a word when my eyes started to have a permanent hint of red that.
No body ever noticed when my eyes became lifeless on my face and their only real purpose was to see what was directly in front of me.

He was a man who commented on my eyes constantly.
In fact, he would often stop me dead in my tracks just so he could get a closer look at them.
Or admire them with my glasses, or without.
Depending on what type of a mood he was in.
Sometimes, I was truly convinced that he was looking straight into my soul, the way he stared so intensely at such an innocent part of me.
Either way, regardless of how I felt, he always made me feel like the prettiest girl  with the prettiest blue eyes.

Until he didn’t.

I always knew he had a temper.
And I got off on the idea that I was the girl who was different.
I was the girl who could calm him down.
I was the girl who was invincible.
But, what I have come to realize is even the toughest armor wears down.
And even the strongest legs get weak and start to wobble.

I have been taught by many teachers.
I have been warned by many adults.
And I have been guided by many of my peers.
But, the biggest lesson that I ever learned was taught through tears, swear-words, and absolutely no calm talking.
The biggest lesson that I ever learned was taught to me by a boy, who I thought was a man.

What he taught me, in his round about way, was abuse doesn’t have to be visible.
It doesn’t necessarily mean black eyes and open wounds.
In fact, more commonly than  not, it can mean harsh words that cut your soul sharper then a knife ever will.
It can mean slamming doors that are almost fast enough to hit you in the face.
It can mean disconnected phone calls and unanswered texts.
It can mean building up walls faster than you were ever able to before, but somehow still giving him the hammer to knock them down.

Abuse for me,
Abuse for him and me,
Abuse that made me sick to my very soul, meant pulling the trigger of the gun that he handed me, even though it was pointed at myself every single time. But, not only did a pull the trigger and watch myself bleed – for it was becoming the only way to make a smile come across his beautiful face;
I continued to do it time and time again with each wound hurting more than the last.
I continued to stitch up my bullet holes and then apologize for bleeding in front of him without acknowledging the fact that he might as well of pulled the trigger himself.

I let him turn me into a weak and lifeless puppet, because I confused love for the abuse that I was receiving.


Abusive relationships don’t necessarily have to be physical.
If you are ever left scared and hurting please don’t wait around for a change that hasn’t come the other 99 times he’s (or she’s) promised it.
And honestly, if you feel like you have no where to turn, never hesitate to message me – because I know that sometimes it is way easier to open up to a complete stranger then someone who could recite ever freckle on your body.

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