You sat by my side. I thought we were friends. And friends are known to leave marks. But only on your heart. And it's supposed to be.... good marks... not the bruises you leave on my shoulders, neck, arms and shins. Not the scratches I'd get like from a cat. I'm not supposed to be afraid. Especially when someone raises a hand. You romanticize my body... my small feet, hands and height. You call me cute.... but then scare me. You raise a hand, and I flinch or tense up. That's not how it should be. You wonder why I ran? You don't remember that I'm half your height... and very fragile on the inside. I thought you were going to hit me and while you were yelling... I realized how scared I truly am of...
You
