Bruised

He was a charmer when we met.

He knew how to say the right things, how go make me laugh and how to pull me in.

And so he did, and I fell for it.

And there I was, on my knees, ready to be his perfect toy.

He did as he pleased, and he had all he wanted so when I came along he took from me what he believed was his, it wasn’t.

What he did to me is ingrained deep on my body, never to leave me.

He learned how to make me cry, how to make me forgive him too.

His bed was warm, his touch was too, so I leaned in and he stripped my soul away.

He played with the colors of my skin like he was an artist and I learned to wear long sleeves, leave my hair down, take two smokes every time, sometimes three, just to get away from his grey room, from his tight grip.

I learned to say yes, to let him in, to not fight it so the aftermath would not be as bad.

I learned to hide my emotions, to not feel them, I learned to disconnect.

And still, his hands still plague my nightmares, his cigarettes still burn my skin, his words ring in my ears like he just spoke them.

I still wake up in tears, I hide away from someone else’s touch, I wait for the worst to happen, for his hands to be the ones waking me up.

I still hate loud noises, sudden moves, I still feel like I don’t deserve to be loved, cared for.

He broke me and sometimes I think is beyond repair.

He broke me and the pieces are still too sharp for anyone else to hold, I’m still scared it will cut them and they will leave me too.