She knows she’s been reduced to tucked in feet and fists curled so tightly that her nails draw blood from her palms. She knows there’s blood in her mouth from biting her tongue and holding herself back when he’s screaming or sneering at everything she does. She knows she has become something other than she used to be. More volatile. Curled up tightly under empty sheets, afraid he’ll be back with fists for guns. She knows she’s afraid of looking at the wound when it has already dug itself deep into her chest. He was toxic. The poison clawed its way deep into the cavities of her bodies and left scars that won’t fade. She doesn’t try bandaging herself. She watches them grow, standing naked in front of the mirror, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets, paranoia turned into palpitations coursing through her veins. She knows he’s gone. She knows now there’s space. For her to heal. To grow. She knows he changed her. That what seemed like candy left a bitter aftertaste that refuses to melt away. That fear has dug holes in her and refuses to leave until she cuts it out. She knows she refuses to use teeth and claws to fight. Even when the only predator remaining is her.
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