They say "...I'll cry if I want to." but I'd say its not exactly a personal choice.
I decided to call him shrapnel, because his words hit a thousand targets strategically placed throughout my system. As if he knew where each would impact me.
My heart. My mind. Every last notch in my spine. My gut. My nerves. And of course he would never miss...my every last curve. (The same curves, in fact that he so cautiously ventured to not a week prior to this very occasion. He was always so careful as to not deface the skin I'm held in. For on the surface I am beautiful.)
All the while my core is slipping further, and further away. And I cannot seem to find where it began. Nor where it ended. Balance is impractical if there is no floor, no ceiling. No gravity.
He does not grasp the gravity of his weapon. He floats like space. It's empty. It's endless.
But I will not deface what is underneath, for I am beautiful beneath the surface as well.
