Inside of him were lightning and thunderbolts, and his eyes reflected the whirlpools of rage rampaging through his blood. Perhaps you’ve only seen the time when he was the calm of the storm, or perhaps you thought you could take him. But how wrong you were. I cried every day for how wrong you were.

There was only one sunny day in your life. It was when you first wore white lace and white gloves, freshly picked peonies held in your hands. You’ve always hated white, because once it was stained, all they would ever see would be that blotch in a canvas of purity—so you believed in character rather than perfection. But that day was the first time you loved the color white. Then you began to guiltily resent it all your life.

After that, he brought the thunderstorms with him. You were the ground that the rains pounded unceasingly in June. Just like a pockmarked patch of concrete, you did not complain. You were strong in your weakness, the bruises circling your eyes covered by layer upon layer of foundation. How I wished I could, in the same way, cover the bruises in your heart.

One of the biggest regrets of my life, mother, was that my hands were too small to shield you. That I could only cower beneath the table as I watched your cheeks mold with the floor. But my greatest regret is that I swore never to be like him, and failed…  ❤