My wrist is marked with pain-
endless nights of screaming, yelling,
reassuring me of just how much she loved me.
Not a **** bit.
My wrist is marked with doubt-
am I really as worthless as she claimed?
Am I even worth this pitiful life she has given me?
Am human- or something less?
My wrist is marked with countless years
spent in absolute terror of a volatile being with a title
she would never deserve.
My wrist is marked with blood.
The blood that scientists whose job it is to study,
and psychologists who pick up the pieces afterwards,
have all predicted to be shed.
But never was.
My wrist is marked with self-inflicted wounds-
letters- "The choice I never made."
M wrist is marked,
not by blade, but a tattoo gun.
My wrist is marked with pride.