She was innocent.
Fourteen years he tore at it. Fourteen years he peeled away the flesh.
She was strong enough to piece it back together.
Yet, it was scarred. Heavy. Hollow.
She was brave enough to let him in.
Four months he ripped it apart. Four months he split it in every direction.
She clumsily stitched it whole.
Yet, it was hard. Resistant.
She took a chance.
Seven months he repressed it. Seven months he caged it, suffocating it.
She knew it was damaged. She didn’t try to fix it.
It just. It just hung on.
She sought refuge.
Five months he nursed it. Five months it pulsed.
She smiled. She smiled even in parting.
It could stand. Alone.
Four years you bludgeoned it in the background. Four years you pounded at it.
She could take it.
It could take it.
She let go.
One week you try to heal every wound. One week you try to fix it.
She won’t let you.
And yours bleeds.
And it crushes hers.