My wrist is marked in pain-
endless nights of screaming, yelling,
reassurances of how much she loved me.
Not a damn bit.
My wrist is marked with doubt-
am I as worthless as she claimed?
Am I worthy of the pitiful life I have lived?
Am, I, indeed, human-
or something less?
My wrist is marked by the years
I spent in constant terror
of a volatile being,
with a title she never deserved.
My wrist is marked with blood.
Blood that numerous scientists,
with studies of such things,
and countless therapists,
whose job it is to pick up the pieces
left behind after such things,
have said was sure to have been spilled
after such a tragedy.
But it never was.
My wrist is marked with self-inflicted wounds-
letters, "The choice I never made."
My wrist is marked, not with a blade,
but a tattoo gun.
My wrist is marked with pride.