My hands are covered in heartbreak.
He is yelling at me. Spitting out his words attempting to command my attention with sheer volume. His neck vein is sticking out too. He is really trying.
He just can’t see how worn out I am. He is oblivious to the amount of heartbreak I have already experienced.
If ever took the time to really look at my hands, he would have noticed that the heartbreak has always been on them.
My hands have always been covered in my own blood.
He is just adding to the mural at this point.
I just stare at my palms, face up on my lap.
The lines are so thin. They seem so unnecessary, but I’m sure they serve a purpose.
He is still yelling.
He doesn’t understand.
I am so far gone.
My mom hates who I am, he hates who I became.
I am tired of hiding myself.
His words are distant roars calling out to me. Almost like he is a train a mile away attempting to forewarn me of its arrival.
But instead of moving out of the way of the train barrelling towards me, I just spread my arms wide and lift my face to the sky, smiling at the prospect of an end.