****!

you burned me.
my body is mangled and blistered from it.

It stings afterwards for hours.
An uncomfortable feeling that wont stop,
wont ease,
never ends.

I can only sqwirm around in my chair,
covering my wound with my shame.
My orange sweatshirt brushes against it
constantly. non stop.

eventually it stops,
after hours of discomfort,
and I decide to do laundry.
so I drag my bag full of ***** clothes
down the four flights of stairs, into the dungeon...

****!

I hit my arm against the wall,
you are hitting me over and over
to worsen the pain.

Now it burns like fire where it was hit.
Destroying my every hope of anything
to survive your wrath.
I lift my sleeve...

******!

It is bursting with red,
like your rosy cheeks after a day in the sun,
but much much worse.  

Carefully I pull the sleeve down
to cover my discomfort.  
and I load the washer.

******* ****!!!

I see that blisters now form.
they are large, and tender.
Three radii of a quarter,
and the height of dime's diameter.
(the change in my pocket was all i had to measure with)

And then one pops.
The clear pus pours from the small hole made
by trying to pull out a hair in the center of the growth.
it streams down my arm and drips off
as I struggle to find something to mop it up with.  

Finally my sorrow-filled pus is finished
draining from my skin.
Now I cut away the flap left by you.
pulling it back with tweezers and snipping away at the edges
as the raw skin underneath burns like a thousand suns
burying themselves into the depths
of my skin.

It takes about an hour to cut it all away,
every last bit of your biological destruction
done to my fore-arm.  

Sitting there all I can think about it your burn,
the way that you scarred me.
And of course I wonder,
did I do this to myself?
Did I cause the pain?

I did.

It wasn't you who singed my arm,
who caused these blisters.  

It was me.

I did.