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Dec 2013
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.

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.
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