Pieces of him

I am a collection of fractured pieces, stitched together with violence, trauma, and blood. I know exactly what I am.

A weapon.
A monster.

Something that was broken so many times that somewhere along the way, breaking became the only thing I knew how to do.
And yet, when Lorenzo looks at me, I swear he sees something else.

Not something innocent.

Not something good.

Something worth keeping.

Something worth claiming.

He has never been foolish enough to say it aloud. But I have always been a great reader of the things people are too afraid to say. I hear confessions in his silences. I see promises in his eyes. I know every word Lorenzo swallows before it can reach his lips.

And somehow, every one of them says the same thing.

He sees me.

Not the blood. Not the scars. Not the violence carved so deeply into me that I no longer know where the monster ends and the man begins.

He sees all of it.