You’re the chips in the walls
Painted over too many times
Walls in a house
that no one wants to buy
The lines on her arms
That never fully fade
She will always be damaged
And no paint can make her whole
Writing is usually easy for her
But how does she find a metaphor
For the pain she can’t even fully
explain herself
When, in the car, you pinch her thigh and call her fat
Are you a storm
Or a train rushing toward her frozen figure
When you tell her she should kill herself
Are you a monster
A pill
A phantom pain
Or a weed in a garden
Or are you just a man because-
Rabid animals don’t decide to hunt anymore than than the storm chooses its path
And Weeds don’t desire to kill lilies
Isn’t justifying your abuse
Just saying I deserved it?

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