The bruises were more defined now. 
I can take whatever he does to me. 
Oh god. A gun. “It’s nothing to cry over, honey.”
This entire thing had been purely
psychological. He leaned closer, grabbing
my face in one hand. 
It wasn’t a nice laugh. 
“You don’t hate me enough to run away.”
Truth spit from the mouth of a man
known for his lies. He breathed deeply,
the sound still gives me chills. 
A hand wrapping my forearm, unnoticed before. 
My skin screams, blood bubbles the surface
pleading to be let go. His disgust is muttered 
between bites. Chunks of flesh, fragment of bone. 
Spit out on the carpetted Chevy truck floors to soak. 
A cheap nylon slip dress, neon green tights. 
Wrap my body, cellophane, funeral dress. 
Curves carved in hopes a gaze may linger in
a new direction, free from intimidation. 
My casket, final resting place,
the bed of a rusted truck, hinges creaking. 
Hauling my body in the back.
Blood crystalized to sand,
pale skin baby doll, 5 years his junior. 
My sattelite wish won’t get me far.