Secondhand Scars

Disillusioned loneliness, a perjured concept of love,

Bruises on my brain where you touched,

Scabs picked bloody by your breath,

A misconstrued love soured like rotting milk.

Trust which you read to me like a script from your palm, smeared and full of lies.

Lies.

Liar.

Lying, damnit.

You lied.

I…

I still blister at the thought of you doing that.

I can’t look.

I won’t look.

The chasm between my healing and my hurt too far to bridge.

But you still have your fingers dug into my flesh,

Pain dug into what should have been pleasure.

I can’t look at it without seeing that image,

Seeing what you forced on me.

The rips you left because you didn’t care about what or who or how I needed,

But that I was useful and hurting, and easy to use.

Scars you burnt, clawed, and drew on me because I wouldn’t, couldn’t say no.

Scars that I bear written on my brain, my spine, my heart.