When it happens, you do not exist to him. You are not a person.

You are a flimsy, anthropomorphic rag doll that he throws around. He will pull apart, he will position, and drag you by your wrists. He will ignore you as if he is alone in that room with the volume of his thoughts turned on too loud. He'll break. He'll throw your body against the walls. He'll scar and suffocate. When you protest, he'll go harder. He'll shove you into blanks. He'll destroy you internally and externally. He'll finish, then hold you and cradle you with coldness like he cares.

When it happens, you do not exist to yourself.

You'll dissociate. You'll hover above your body and watch the macabre scene unfold. You'll stare blindly at a spot on the ceiling until it's over. You'll fade into oblivion. Into tranquility. You think a thousand things at once. About how it feels to die. If there will be a tomorrow. When he does not kill you, you'll wonder why. You'll crave it. You will shower in burning hot water for months, but still feel where he touched you. 

You will shiver in the summer.