I know I am a mess.

Try as I might, there was always yelling at the end of the day,
I was broken by his hands across my skin,
Leaving ghosts along my skin that only I can still see,
The shadows of the bruises, echoes of his screams, 
Joined by the scars left on my skin from my own hand,
Searing in the hate that fueled his anger at me. 

His fingerprints left imprints pressed in my brain,
And from his words hurled my way,
Raging and tossing as the ocean does with crashing waves,
They washed over me, pulling me further from shore,
Until even my bones felt so heavy, I sank the the ocean floor.

Drowning, until I braved the swim, 
Remembering that if I fought to keep my head above long enough,
I could eventually escape him.

But six years simply can’t be fixed with two more.

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