The collateral damage is worse than the immediate gratification.

He hit me.

I could sew that phrase into my skin and it still wouldn't make much sense.

I would still feel the bruises and the tears.

He hit me?

It's the beginning of the end and I'm on my knees, begging for breath once again.

He hit me.

The bruises don't feel real but they're there. Clear as day, clear as my mother's wine glass.

He hit me.

I can hear the birds telling me to run. Run far, far away from a man whose grip is too tight on my wrists.

I don't.

He hit me.

This isn't real, I'm breathing in lies. Lies of deceitfulness and disconcertment.

He hit me.

I always wondered what it felt like. I don't anymore. I don't want to feel anything anymore.

He hit me and it didn't feel like a kiss like how the writers portray it.

It felt like razors reopening a new wound that was caused by one too many lies.

He hit me and no one is doing anything, not even myself. I don't have the willpower to do anything. It's far too late. He's far too gone.

I was once a young, ethical being.

Jealous eyes shown my way more than once. Yet, now I have turned into something I can't even perceive with my own eyes.

Now, eyes cast upon me for sympathy and woes, glancing at the bruises however not asking.

Ask! Ask! Ask! I'll explain in a long, run down sentence of, "He was never this aggressive."

"HE WAS NEVER THIS AGGRESSIVE."

Those words still taste sour on my tongue. They burn my throat worse than the smoke.

I've cried more in front of him than I have in front of my best friends. Don't feel sorry yet! Because he was the cause of it all!

So, everyone with their greedy eyes and need of a back story. I won't give you one. Because I don't even have one for myself.