Poem - PTSD

I can still smell him.
The musky sweat, the cologne, the popcorn on his breath.

I still feel him.

His sharp, evil fingernails everywhere they shouldn't be.
His thick, calloused hands everywhere they shouldn't be.
I remember the pain.
His watch scraping against the scabbed-over, self-harm, razor slits on my hipbones
as everything I protected was abused and thieved.
His fingernails.
My throat.
My sense of security.

I can't get out.
My skin is wound airtight around my bones.
I want to slice it with a blade
long, deep lines
and step out
and run
sprint,
never stop.

I'm not pretty anymore.
I feel bad for the man, if I ever marry.
Too many times I've cut my skin.
Raised, purple, flat, brown
scars covering my stomach, arms, thighs.
Word scars.
Fat, ugly, dead.

It was seven months ago.
And I feel everything
and see everything
hear it all -

as if it were in the last 5 minutes.

And I don't want to live anymore.