I Don't Hurt

It started with words.
He'd say I wasn't worth his time.
I'd retort with the fact that his time wasn't worth much to begin with.
That's when he hit me.
But I'd stand up again, red face, defiant.
I'd smile at him, though I hurt inside, cuts so deep he'd never know were there.
He walks out, swearing, he'll come back soon.
I stand in the room, smiling sadly, tears dripping down the sides of my face.
I laugh at the thought of hurting, and cherish my tortures.
I have gotten so used to it by now that it hardly affects me.
A few hours later he strides in again.
When he leaves, I'm on the floor, black, purple and blue.
Such beautiful colours from such a terrible dispair.
I cry then, with hardly any strength.
I lie there for hours, suffering, screaming, using up the last of my strength to hurt myself more.
His face appears, almost transparent at the door, and he says he's going out.
Just a memory.
I die.
It ended with words.
"I love you."