This abuse is without visible scars:

the coppery blood
is that of a broken heart
pooling around me,
craving to drown me
even as we join as one --

the throbbing bruises
are that of spoken words
sprouting like flowers
seeking to consume
even as he spreads me open --

the suffocating broken bones
are that of the fear
filling my lungs,
burning my nose like acid
even as he kisses me --

the deafening tears
are that of threats
ringing and screaming inside,
stealing any other sound but him
even as he makes me laugh --

the blinding black eye
is that of isolation
wrapping tight ‘round me,
sewing my eyelashes together
even as he glances my way --

But you can’t see it, so is it really there?