Blood Spilt

Memories of him are ingrained in her body like the veins running blue down her arms. They're written on her soul like the scars and bruises he left. They're left on her mind and heart and every part of herself- they're in the very atoms that make up her existence. And she knows that's how its always going to be. People will see the scars of her abuse, red lines and deep burns faded with time but always there and forever there. They are her penance, her burden to shoulder like Atlas shouldered the burden of the world. And she'll wear them proudly, she knows she deserved it: not as baseless punishment by an angry man, but because she will never be strong enough to let him go. She may stand strong in front of a judge and jury and those who once told her to run as far away as possible from him and tell them all the truth- that she was beaten and bruised for nothing but his anger. But in the silence of her own mind and heart, she knows. She will bear physical reminders of him for the world to see, but they will also serve as her own reminders, of everything he never felt for her and everything he'd taken with him. He would always be her first love, no matter the blood he took or the amount of pieces of her heart he'd left broken on the floor.