Harsh

Behind the burnt brown of her gaze struck a piercing notion
that she’d never survive the outcome of the commotion; she’s tangled in
a web so intricately knotted that her only hope fell on the sharp
wit and reliance of others to notice
she’s there, but actually nowhere near alive
cause she’s died inside on multiple occasions where he’d show his love through a stream of abrasions and
black and blue reminders that running was no option unless she craved a coffin,
and so each night, curled up on a bed made of false hopes and lies and the tears from her eyes, she’d wait,
anticipating each blow to her shattered self pieced together with leftover tape from the night before,
a sticky mess he’d ignore as he feasted on her oozing heart
while she laid lifeless, the brown in her eyes fading to black.

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