The marks you leave are harder to see.

There are lies spilling over your broken lips
like the blood from between her legs--
you've forgotten what it feels like to be happy
and she's forgotten what it means to be loved.

The alcohol in your bloodstream is your motive,
your vice, your struggle, and your pride.
You whisper the secret into the hollow of her throat,
laying the words into her skin like henna ink--
"You're the only one who knows."
And now she's bound to you with cords of loyalty,
cursing your name the same way she blessed it in the dark.

You made a space in her solar plexus for your heart,
and, in leaving, left her only with a hole,
the kind that slowly fills with all the reasons she has ever had
to wish to die.

Count your luck--
the only person she hates more than you
is herself.