She pulls off her shirt,
forgetting to look for the bruises.
She inspects the purple and the blues,
telling herself:
It'll never happen again.
Fear;
seeing her makeup in the mirror,
and the memory of his fist,
flying somewhere it shouldn't have been.
Pain;
knowing she wasn't right,
and he wasn't the one.
Knowing she'll never pick up
the pieces of herself
that are scattered across the floor.
Remembering his embrace,
and his sweet, so-called love.
His obsession.
His bruises more permanent than his kiss.
Feeling empty,
realizing she couldn't--shouldn't-- live this way.
Walking on broken glass,
shattered hearts and lives,
broken promises and
thought-out lies.
Trying to protect herself
and her empty, battered heart.
But she'll never be able to restart.
Because of the bruises,
more permanent than his kiss.
