It was nothing, you say. I wasn’t planning to hurt you.
You just overreacted.
You’re just so pretty, I had to.
The things you do provoke me.
Seriously, abuser. You actually think that I know what your limits are?
One thing is heartily clear about abuse: the abuser, not the victim, determines its end-point. It’s called control for a reason.
How do I know that when you ask me if I’m 18 yet that it’s because you don’t want it to be statutory?
How do I know that you, cat-calling, won’t be the one jerk that follows me?
How do I know that when I wave the offer of a drink away, you won’t follow me to my car?
How do I know when you rub up against me at work that you won’t deny me a future promotion?
How do I know that when you beat up the furniture, my face is not next?
How do I know that the bruises on my arms won’t be on my throat the next time?
How do I know that when you rush towards me, fist raised, you know you aren’t going to slug me?
How do I know when you throw that knife and slur “I want to kill you” that you actually won’t?
How am I supposed to guess I’ll actually survive you?
You think I’m a fucking mind-reader? Buddy, I’m not. And that, my friend, is why you’re fucking terrifying.
If you are trying to understand abuse, I recommend this book highly, whether your abuser is a man, a woman or someone on the continuum: Why Does He Do That? Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men, by Lundy Bancroft