(Note: This poem is written solely for a poetry challenge, and I do not support any form of abusive relationship, nor do I romanticize it.)

He loves me, right?
He does, in his own ways.
It's sometimes gloomy, sometimes bright—
"Single shade is boring", he says.

I don't understand
The disquiet of the people around.
Even with moments of hurt that soon mend,
He keeps me safe and sound.

And then I felt a grip like a vice.
On my waist—a whisper, not a shout,
In his hypnotic voice:
"Darlin'—is that my love, you doubt?"

"No, honey," I gave my head a frantic shake,
Not from fear, I'm sure...
"No doubt, your love is true—not fake,"
I said, to calm his nerves—to reassure.

“No, my dearest, I think you did,”
He said, his voice controlled and calm.
I caught a hint of... hurt? “No! Honey, God forbid.”
“I’m sorry—forgive me for that harm.”

“You guilty, darlin’? Maybe you should.”
He said, with a chuckle that followed.
“Oh, I was joking, my dearest—now don’t be sorry;
I’m not hurt—I know from you, I’m valued.”

I was unsettled—so stupid to question him.
“Honey, I love you, from my soul, heart, and mind.”
Him—my man who gives in to my every whim.
“I promise—my belief is firm; you won’t be needing to remind.”

“Shh... Darlin’, that thing—let’s forget.”
“Are you sure, honey?” I asked, but silenced by the brush on lips I felt.
“We can do so much better things—than regret.”
He said, as in his embrace, I melt.

Then his arms, all around—
So warm and heady,
Both potent to heal and cause a wound,
Claiming rightfully, never asking if I'm ready.

“Mine,” he whispered, and pulled me close.
It’s so overwhelming—but still so sweet.
As he murmured his possessive vows,
How can I even pull away amidst this heat?

Then it came—the powerplay.
He held the power; I played the play.
He’s exciting—so wayward,
A little harm—then reward.

He’s so addictive—he’s a drug.
I’m addicted; I can’t break free.
In his life—I’m sometimes a crown, sometimes a rug.
But a passionate lover—is what I see.

To his pattern, I’m dependent.
Sometimes deprived and starving,
Sometimes his love—abundant.
He says, “I love your vulnerability, darling.”

He’s haunting, yet comforting.
Sometimes accepting the “no,” sometimes exhorting.

I don’t care—red or green,
Nor do I care—gentle or mean.
I won't step back, even if I can;
Compassionate or hostile—still my man.

“Mine to hurt, mine to heal.
Mine to neglect, mine to feel.
So beautifully ruined, so beautifully mine,”
Spoken in his voice—as intoxicating as wine.

He whispered, “Darlin’, you love me, right?
Without any doubt or hesitation.
I love when you sulk, I love when you smile bright,
You’re my life, my heartbeat, my salvation.”

I hugged him tighter, as I replied:
“I love you for everything you do,
You too are my life, honey—
I can’t live without you.”

-Aditi Hayaran (Larkspur)