my heart was your punching bag.
and even now, the bruises are still visible
to others, attempting to turn over my hollow remains,
stumbling upon
the wreckage you left behind;
but after each swing,
you would uncurl your fists,
wipe my cheeks roughly,
and insist that my scars
were just marks of you loving me too hard.

but,
i know it’s not your fault;
they blame you for throwing punches
when boxing gloves were forced upon your fingers.

if only i had been there sooner,
to teach you how beautiful hands can be
when they aren’t trying to destroy something.