Just As Sick

I wiped my own tears. I force fed my twisted belly. Soothed my own nightmares.

And yet, I message my trauma that I'm there if she needs me.

I swallow against a thick throat. I wonder if this makes me better than her- for caring.

But she did not care as I was taken advantage of in my sleep.

She went outside for a smoke, so she didn't have to hear it. Or deal with it. a

The nicotine stains the purse I brought that day.

I tore it apart with a patient knife.

I remember, as I type a text to a friendship I did not kill, how I care. But she maimed me beyond repair. And while I look the same- I am not.

I berate myself for sending it. She will not care. The same as she didn't when I had spilt blood into my pants, staining them to the point of burning.

I cannot help the warring of my heart. Perhaps that makes me kinder than her. Perhaps it makes me just as sick.