I asked you to write them
down so I could keep them with me
long enough to understand.
You took your blunt pen and
beginning steady at my hand
you wrote our story on my body
in black and blue.
Days later and I haven’t washed,
yet in the effort of reading, your words
have become bruises, and in truth
they hurt more than your story did
the first time I heard it, even though
your shouting has died down to
a whisper.
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