By Maya Martin
I’m rubbing the back of my hand. There’s a scar only visible when it’s cold, purple like lavender, carved by your fingernails.
I used to laugh about it to horrified faces. Some told me to leave. You said I couldn’t.
You said I’d become nothing but a chasm of repulsive, freakish personality.
The memory of your pale eyes pierces my lungs. Even today.
You said I was destined to die alone in the dark if I didn’t let you bruise my skin.
You’re not here, and I’m surrounded by friendly faces, yet I can’t breathe.
I’m growing fonder of midnight, anyway.
That’s a very special 101 words.
Ouch. A well-told glimpse of narcissistic abuse and the trauma bond.
Well done.
Made me feel uncomfortable. Good job!
So much in so few words. Well done.
Brave 101 words.