I am covered in bruises; I will bruise if you playfully punch me on the arm, and they will blossom into art on my legs from drunkenly walking into things. I can count them after sex with certain people. My best friend is always asking why boys are not more gentle with me, why they don’t seem to notice how small I am.
You did. You told me you noticed, but you didn’t care. You once told me in the same breath that you wanted to marry me, and that I was a plaything. You would never tell me what I cried about.
I am hard on myself. I have gone through every kind of loathing, and maybe that’s why I kept coming back. You felt the same as it did to hurt myself, and I’m good at that.
That’s why I’m in this mess. Because I thought you could fix me, because I need something to fix me. I thought you could make me happy, but when I realised you could only ever hurt me, it was too late and it already felt like old times. I realised that I had been wrong, so I probably deserved it; I’ve never known anything else so why should I expect more? And when I thought that, I realised that you, or this, had really maybe broken something in me. Reopened a wound I thought I had healed. You are selfish and incredibly insecure, manipulative, vain, thoughtless and cold. You are above all else a liar, with only yourself in mind. You are the opposite of tender.