( TW: abuse)

He had vascular arms and hands, but he never worked out. Always stained, but always clean. His hands connected to his lithe yet muscular arms, the ones that beat me. Those stains on his hands were always wiped clean. Maybe someday i’d see things my way. Pop the veins, cover his stains. I’d be free, and maybe live with guilt. I’d be free. His poor blood trapped in his veins, clawing to come out. Only peeking out of scabs every time he hit me. That’s why I brought a needle today. His blood will be free, and they’ll thank me with a warm, free hug. But I love his hands. They’re so warm and inviting, only when the day is over. I can’t ruin his pretty arms… so enticing. So untrustworthy. I can forgive his arms, but not him, yes. Yes? Yup. And now I stand in a room with judging eyes, judging staffs, and judging words. All to pick me apart and find my motive. But I win this case for now, for always. After all, it was his hands that made my veins pop first.