The first time he did it,
it was easy to hide.
The mark looked just like
what emo kids tattooed upon their own skin.
No one questioned it.
The second time, I wasn't so lucky.
A purple bruise above my eye,
a mark upon my face.
After that, he was taken away.
Everyone thought I was safe.
But when he called, I still came
through hidden forest trails
upon the dirt I lay
as he ran the blade of his knife
across my breasts
fulfilling his masochistic desires
and my longing to be admired.
I cut myself so the scars he gave
were assimilated with my own.
No one would ever know.
And then one day I woke up and realized
I deserved a better life
and so when he summoned me to our haven of pain
I turned and ran the other way.
He never found me again.
It's been one and a half years now.
I've been sober of his hands
sober of wounds weeping crimson paint
upon the pale canvas of my skin.
And now, I have to face him in a week,
and I know he'll find me,
the same way he did so many years ago.
I just pray I have the strength
to stand and tell him no.
What the world will never understand
is in the violence, I'm as equally at fault.
I never asked him to stop.