3 showers before 10’oclock

3 showers before 10’o’clock, because I feel dirty. I really don’t know if dirty is even the right word. It’s a kind of feeling that makes you want to scrub away at your skin until there’s nothing left, until your a pile of bones laying in the tub waiting to be buried. That’s the kind of dirty that I feel. There’s nothing there though, in fact I took a shower before bed last night, but I woke up whore. That’s what he says. I carry his child, while he lusts after everyone that is not me, but I am a whore. Two years I have slept with the same man, loved the same man, made the same man, pleased the same man. For two years I have been nothing but faithful, but I am a whore. He made me a mother, but I am a whore. When I was raped at 12 years old, I felt the same kind of dirty. The same kind of dirty that you can never quite scrub off, worse enough never ease your mind of. I was a whore then too, but there was no rape here. The same words coming from the same kind of empty man who somehow has the power to lay all of his filth under your own skin. That’s what makes me feel dirty. My mom has always said that I’m a fighter, that I’m strong, but that can’t be true; because I did now what I did then. I stood there and took it. I stood there and looked an empty man in the eye while he balled his fists and laughed telling me the same thing that I was told then. I am a whore. I just stood there, because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I blame my self education on the topic, telling him that I’m being cautious of my own words. I’m not. I lie. I don’t care if I offend him or cause another problem, I am scared. I am scared of him truly, because he’s changed. I’ve spent the last 6 months vouching for his sobriety and blaming the alcohol. Blaming everything but him because I knew he wasn’t the man to get in my face or take away my entirety. I knew it was one to many shots or a bad day at work, that made him come home every night and drill in those nasty kind of words. I knew wrong. I don’t know him. He still balls his fists when he yells at me, he’s still comfortable shoving me out of his way, slamming doors, and making me feel small; but I don’t smell vodka on his breath. Please tell me why I don’t smell vodka on his breath when he hisses in my face and points his finger at me telling me I’m a whore. Please. It’s not him, it can’t be him, but I watched him sleep last night and I was there when he woke. There’s no bottle laying around. He didn’t go out last night. Please tell me why I can’t smell the vodka.