I started recording our quarrels on a dictaphone at first to let him listen, waiting for an insight. then I recorded them for myself - to think about later. but I didn’t listen to the recordings again for years, until I decided to leave.
he hit me in the face, slammed my head against the wall. I defended myself and kicked a couple of his teeth out. afterwards, I documented the beatings in the hospital, and he said, “I know you liked it too.”
it’s easy to find yourself in a cycle of violence without having a clear idea of the norm.
from old nightstands are heard scraps of insults, blows, my sobs, children's cries, shards of glass sparkle on the floor, in the closet are stored what was filled with love for me - my poems and our song. it’s all over, and I’m no longer in this room.