confessional #2

rewrite, revision

1 March 2025 I wrote:

There was one time when he grabbed my face, and the look in his eyes was one that I could only identify as hatred. And I looked and looked… searching for anything else… There my face sat by the mercy of his hand, my eyes swimming in his gaze for proof of love. In those thirty seconds or so we didn’t say anything but I was begging. Waiting. Knowing there was no space for my tears, I held my breath alongside a “please don’t let this be the end”. Deep down I was afraid.

29 July 2026 I will rewrite:

One day during an argument, he held/grabbed me by the neck. We were looking into each others’ eyes. I was searching for proof of love. All I saw was hate. That was the moment I knew. He could if he wanted to– kill me, strangle me, right there and then. He was strong enough to. Part of me was waiting for him to hit me. Let me bruise, let me die. Let there be proof of my suffering so everyone else can believe what I went through. He never hit me. But he hurt me in other ways. How can I prove it to you if I don’t have the scars to show for it? Why does my pain require evidence for it to be believed? How can I get justice, how can other people get justice if the Singapore Police Force requires evidence beyond a reasonable doubt? How do I tend to my injuries if there is no wound?

It’s been two years. Almost three depending on if you’re counting the first time I was hurt. You tell me.