I thought about all the wasted words,
the blood on the walls,
and dry skin
from the compulsive ways
I had to wash my hands
after he ****** me.

I thought about old scars,
new scars,
and newer still scars.
Scars that would burn from the inside,
until my skin would crack
and I would come pouring out,
again.

At least I have something to write about.
(again)