elizabethquintela
A bottle hits the bedroom wall, as her skin welcomes tiny cracks and blood pours from her pores. The children listen, tears silently falling from their eyes. They wouldn't want to know what Daddy would do to them if he knew they were aware of what he was doing.
The ropes are pressing tighter against my wrists and ankles. The air around me is harder and harder to breathe with each moment. I feel like I am floating in the most horrible of ways, like a balloon being deflated, my life leaving slowly. But there are no ropes; I am the cause of this pain. The ropes are me.
Various scents and faces surround me. Vulnerable, I blush, slowly composing myself when realization hits me: I will never see these people again, but we are all here for a temporary peace.
writing since 2012 · 4 entries · 4 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means liz showed up.
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ropesfeelingslistenslowlyhitshardermusicentersearstidalwaveriddingvoicesbeckonunderstandsecrets