"What are those?" You pointed to the scraggly white lines bruised upon my stomach.

"You know what they are," is what I wanted to say. But I bit the words and swallowed them and felt them pin and ***** my inner linings. I wanted to drive a razor across your skin, make sure you bled the same.

"Nothing."

"I thought you had stopped?"

"I thought so too."

I was hoping words of courage, endearment. A pat on the shoulder, arms around my tired back. I wanted to escape into the place that held your tin heart. I wanted to watch Good Eats and laugh about things that didn’t matter. I didn’t want ***.

But you did. You pushed my head down, ignoring the scars, ignoring the tears.

You could have taken a knife to my throat. It would have felt all the same.