Wanted

I remember, wondering when it all changed.  Maybe the day the sink broke. For years it worked just fine and then suddenly, one day; drip, drip, drip.  He tried to fix it, dove into the pipes in the cupboards and came out sweaty and full of curse words. 
"You cunt, you broke the god damned sink."  Not a yell, just quiet even toned rage and a wrench whizzing past my head.  That time, I got away.  The wall behind me was not so lucky, it bled plaster and drywall. That night when he took me to bed, I tried to say no. 
"Shush," he said, "It's ok, ok, ok'" each punctuated with my sharp intake of breath as he held my hands tight against the pillow.  The scratches were easy to hide, but the bruises stayed on my wrists for two weeks. 
After that, I learned not to say no.  Long after he fell asleep I would stare at the wall, thinking of all the things I could have done, must have done, to make him despise me so.  No more kisses for me, no more joking proposals or wondering breathless words, "You are so beautiful."
I learned to buy my love and save it up over time, one sleepy caress was enough to last me for months. 
Other women get out, get even, get away.  I'm not one of those women.  This is my world now, and though I have fantasized about ending it for you or me with a pipe or a gun or knife; I know that I don't have the courage.  Instead, I turn fear into worship, and find a million things that I must be punished for; a million reasons for you to hit me and scratch me and scare me.  This must be what I deserve, for this does not happen to undeserving women.  I am lucky, for at least, he needs me for something.  Whether for hatred or love, I am wanted.