Marks

We take a hit and golden-tinted bruises adorn my arms and legs, the smoulder from your cigarette rising from my skin. You tell me it’s the last time and I silently smile at you, the pain from a million paper cuts forming on the bottom of my stomach and I know is not the last time.

It was never the last time so I got out, almost not making it in the process.

I used to smoke two cigarettes every time so I could stay out of sight a little longer, I now do it out of habit.

I used to close my door and leave it unlocked so I could get out as quickly as I could, after you, I started checking the locks three times.

I used to be scared, petrified of ever receiving the slightest hint of you being interested on me again but now that it has happened I can say you don’t scare me anymore.

I can say I enjoy smoking my two cigarettes in good company, I don’t have to leave a way out and I bear my teeth in every smile.

You can’t reach me anymore.