Love
by Mae Astrid Tobias
I am always blamed
For every broken plate
every withered plant
every misplaced tool
in the house.
She is quick with her hands,
the belt wrapping
around her palm.
I wince.
The leather burns.
Pelts appear on my thighs.
I hold back my tears.
I wait
perhaps for an apology
because I refuse to believe
this is love.
