// implied rape, identity loss. Trauma
You were not made quickly. There are pieces of her scattered across half a dozen states, slivers and fragments of where they carved her away to make you. Echoes and memories of each agonizing cut. She did not die quickly.
There’s a lifetime of wreckage strewn out behind you; all the hunks of her you shaved off in the process of becoming. Lost laughter on the wind and dreams turned to cigarette smoke. She had always believed a better world was possible; she had wanted more for you than this.
There’s a splash of her inside the bedroom of that house you wish you could forget, yet always recall in perfect detail.
She’s painted on the walls of the grimy apartment where you thought you had found safety, and on the rocks of the nearby pier where you realized you hadn’t.
She’s strewn against a fence gate on a lonely forested mountaintop and coating the insides of a tent at a ren faire in Ohio.
She’s splattered against the cigarette stained walls of a windowless flat in southern Pennsylvania and soaking into the last seat on a lonely greyhound bus.
Cut by cut, wound by wound, harm by harm, she died.
All that’s left now is the trail of debris and the blood on your hands. Do you think she was grateful to be sacrificed? She’s finally free of the pain, you’re the one who has to live with it.
What’s left of you anyway.