Trigger

She never paints her nails anymore;
long, slender-fingered, slightly dirty but scented with vanilla honey.

He walked in with her that day, his hands occupied in more ways than one
He'll call me later, much later.
But for now, he walks away

I turned around, and my hand met the wall in a rush of brick and stars and the only pain I ever knew I could control

I pull back, sigh, cover up the darkening skin.
broken again.