Those ragged rips in her shirt bring a hallowed look to her eye.
The scrapes in her hands still bleed when her fingers tighten into fists.
The skinned knees and ripped jeans tighten her throat until she can’t breathe.
There is a bruise painted on the left curve of her hip with soft purple edging and when she inhales, it is struck once again.
The nervous fingers toying with the edge of her sleeve are hiding more bruising in the perfect shape of a not so gentle hand, and cuts that she thought could cover the ugly marks.
The pain scraping across her eyes buckles your knees with awe as you wonder for the hundredth time how her split lip doesn’t sting when she smiles at your arrival and opens her arms wide to hug you against broken ribs.
It’s as if you are the sun greeting only her with liquid warmth and she feels no pain in that moment but the memory still hasn’t let go of her wretched eyes.