He cracked me open like a shell.
I took the bruises and made them into poems — the one about the forest, the one about the violets. You remember. I took the blood and I said nothing. There were no words, only screaming, only no, please. Only, stop. Only, get out get out get out.
I don’t cry. I bite it back.
I’m not that little girl anymore.
I knot my fingers into fists, but there’s no one left to swing at. There’s only me. I take the poems and make them into bruises. I say nothing. I bleed. There’s no screaming.
I am silent. I bite it back.
I crack myself open like a shell, but I’m too late.
There’s nothing left inside of me.