Damaged

I married the bad boy from Brooklyn. And I don’t know how to survive this.

I married the bad boy from Brooklyn.

The one with the tattoos and the look in his eyes that told me he was bad news.

The look that comes with all sorts of warnings.

I knew what I was doing.

I knew by the way he put his hands on me; how he owned me with his forceful touch.

I couldn’t say no to him, not that I wanted to. That was then, and it seems like forever ago.

Years later, I’ve grown up and moved on. But he’s still the ...