To feel like my ribcage cannot contain
the tremendous racket that is my
heartbeat.

With flung venom and sharp fangs,
You berate me, endlessly.
And I cower.
Dig my fingernails into my palms until they bleed.
It doesn't stop the tears from burning my iris' black
(the boys I'll turn to someday for validation
will tell me that they're beautiful.
And I'll stay in bed with them all day,
Never bothering to mention why I'm so tired).

But right now,
My scars are open wounds,
And you've made a game out of pouring salt onto them.

The pain is so profound, it will stay with me
For years.
But you'll belittle that too.
Until, everytime I lose control,
I think of you.

It's no wonder I don't know what innocence is anymore.