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emmie cosgrove Jul 2017
Sometimes I wish I could

Pull the child who lives inside of me

Out,

Dress her wounds

Kiss her bruises

And embrace her in my arms

So,

She knows that one day

She will be

Loved
Rebel Heart Jul 2017
We've been scorched and trialed
Scarred beyond recognition
Bruised beyond repair
But we've shed our skin to become
Masters of our own disguises...

Scars line our bodies
Intertwining like a mysterious vine
Lacing together in jagged harmony
Intricate like a hidden beauty within itself..

Some were received from battle
More received from the battle within
From the depths of the darkness
Haunting the forgotten graves
Lost in the whispering wind..

Our skin's a masterpiece
Covered in red, black, and blue
But is it the color of glory
Or of shame
Of fear
Of the silent shadows still living within us...

Are we truly soldiers
Or simply ones without a cause
Lost in the sounds of chaos
For eternity to endure...

Our scars tell our stories
But are they the ones being heard
Or are our silent screams
Lost in the unforgiving wind
In the depths of time itself?

Then truly,
   Do these scars,
       Our story
         Mean anything
              At all ....
At first I didn't understand this poem. Then I realized in the notes RH had written "I don't want to live forgotten". This was written, apparently, back in 2014. Anyway, I realized the soldiers represented everyone in the world who was fighting endlessly just to help leave their marks on this world and had been left forgotten by those who came after them. As a poet/writer we'll forever leave our marks on the world. We may even end up forgotten but our words will find a way to live on, our memory along with them. And someone like Rebel Heart should know its near impossible to forget someone as amazing as herself.... ~BM
Allyssa Jul 2017
I kept you around because you knew me,
You knew my story,
My background,
The trauma,
The meaning behind tired.
What I forgot was that I gave you that privilege,
The chance to stay even after the door had been locked,
The opportunity to hold me close when all you did was let me go and watch me come right back,
Like the bright red yo-yo you had when you were a kid.
I had forgotten I had given you a right to see me at my weakest,
Me.
I did that.
There was a time before you,
When I knew no such thing as a hand wrapped around my throat in your tight fist when fists were made for Rock-Paper-Scissors,
When scars were thrown across my body when I thought scars were from battle wounds earned by soldiers fighting for a country they loved,
There was a time when a man hitting a woman never crossed my mind,
That only happened in dramatic movies and horror films.
You,
You gave me a reason to open my eyes to see the world in a way that I thought I would never have to look in but I guess,
Thanks.
Thank you for the caution that I have adopted into my life,
Thank you for darkness I can hide myself in when I feel unsafe,
Thank you for the heartbreak,
For the chance to understand that pain exists in the world,
A world I never knew and would not have been able to survive in because I was too gentle.
I was delicate,
My skin only flushed when it reached embarrassment and not with shamefulness,
I was untouched in a way only God could understand but even now,
My faith shakes in the light that points into my face when I am being questioned by my alter ego.
Convincing myself,
Persuading,
It was what I had wanted, right?
Because how do you let someone stay after purple kisses are given to you by their fists,
How do you let someone climb into your body unwillingly if you were stripped numbly by their hands and you were too frozen to object.
You must have wanted it,
Right?
To the ex lover I will never run back to.
Nicole Dawn Jul 2017
Color blooms at your touch
Purples, blues, and greens

Rivers flow at your presence
And dry up at your voice

Red splashes across the artwork
That you create within your passion

You have strength in your arms
And thunder in your voice

(Is this how you see it?)
(Do you think this is beauty?)

Hiding in fear, as you come near
There is nothing beautiful about this
This is about abuse, sort of written from the position of the abuser? Idek sorry
Seema Jun 2017
Bruises on her face
Like steamy bubbling geysers
Burnt and disfigured
Now a surviving victim
Of brutal acid attack

  
©sim
Allyssa Jun 2017
I could tell you how every bit of you flashed before my eyes as we met that very first night,
But how can I explain the way our souls met and fought while my heart thought it was love,
How can I explain the many thoughts that trickled into my head as your fist connected with my jaw and the scream that ripped through me.
What can I say to the mother that raised me who said to never let a man hit me but my god I'd let you do anything to stay because
You're
All
I
Know.
when did I start to believe the lies you fed to me by your hand as the other gripped my thigh and my heart whispered, "This is love."
What led you to use your anger amongst me like an angry pen furiously scratching across a page when the ink runs out because neither the paper or the pen can no longer bare the force put upon either.
What made me to be so submissive to the peppered bruises across my tan skin like purple stains on a linen sheet that you just can't wash out because how can you wash out the memory of something so powerful it
Never
Leaves.
You do it again because the power you hold over me is greater than the cries I let out or the blood that trickles from the wounds you make that stain the carpet because I let you.
I shiver in your wake.
Please, I beg of you, let me die.
Don't let him hit you anymore. He will do it until you perish.
Elizabeth Foley May 2017
There are bruises on my body
Which is
Exactly
How I like it
I find solace
And comfort
In the purple
Green
And blue
There is triumph
In the knowing
That I can put up
A fight
It’s nice to have
A visual
For why
My insides throb
Even though
The throbbing places
Are nowhere near
The bruises
Even though
The visual
Looks more like
A civil war
Because while
My heart is
Bleeding
And as
My lungs
Collapse
While my brain
Implodes
My skin remains
Untouched
The picture of
Perfection
Except
Of course
Those places
Where you
Can see
A bruise
AD Snail May 2017
I have told everyone about those strange miss-matched shapes,
That litters my skin,
And tell a tale but I make sure their words are twisted.

No one needs to know the pathetic truth,
The little tale, that repeats back to me, "Your unwell."
That's fine by me; as long as it doesn't come from someone else.

I am still incomplete; still not well enough to look myself in the mirror.
Lacking the focus, to understand that I should be disappointed.

I have tattered the skin upon my body with purple and blue.

This dotted bruising I should feel ashamed of,
But I can never convince myself to stop or be disappointment.

The gently miss-match, unhealthy color to the tone of my skin,
Tells the tale's of my self-hatred and rage,
And all the unwell thoughts that dance around my mind.
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