This one I almost didn’t post, for so many reasons, my children, my ex-partner who I unwittingly became a boxing partner with, my husband, myself. But it is a part of my story, a chapter I rewrote a million times on paper aware I could never change it. Now I am in a place where I can be honest about why I chose a man that could hurt me the way he did.

Human Punchbag

It doesn’t hurt that much to feel a man’s fist hit your face,
The pain comes from hiding it with dignity and grace.
The first time that he struck me I remember stumbling back,
But eventually I just did my best simply not to crack

You see there’s so much pressure, when you’re someone’s human punchbag
You become scared to say your side of things, frightened just to nag
Everyone respects you less, as you cling on for life,
Why is no one helping when they see him with a knife?

His mother and his sisters, were his victims too,
But they learned to ignore it, were they happy I was new?
Fresh blood for him to lash out at, as he demoralised my youth
At first I would fight back, with every nail and tooth

But eventually I grew weary, tired and ashamed
I never once felt he was wrong, it was myself I blamed.
I had become so weakened from the person I once was
Perhaps I numbed a part of me, maybe just because…

It was easier to just settle, ignore the harsh reality
That every once in a while, I liked that he hit me
I finally felt seen, in a world that had been cruel
When he laid his hands on me, it lit me up like fuel

I felt something inside, I hadn’t felt for ages
Even though it broke my heart it was something quite contagious
Sometimes I could feel the fury, rising through my soul
Other times I was dead inside, like his eyes of coal

But it really doesn’t hurt that much, for a man to hit your body,
What hurts the most, is that I never saw this as my story
That I let myself be subjected, almost every day
To a relationship that was so toxic in every kind of way