bruised hearts.

you used to tuck flowers behind your ears. but that was before. you used to do a lot of things. you used to make tea and biscotti, and we'd eat them and pick at the paint on your yellow dining room table. you used to wear that red dress with the white polka dots. you used to scribble on my white converse with sharpie. you used to play that old second-hand chestnut guitar that you flick rainbow paint on. you dog-eared the pages of your books, and wrote on the sides of them in your careful cursive. but that was all before.
before he made bruises sprout on your pale arms, and neck, and stomach. before he stole the light from your eyes, and tucked it away in shoeboxes filled with old polaroids and scraps of ribbon. before you developed that habit of flinching whenever anyone came near.
he wouldn't let me see you. I'd knock on your white door, and he'd come and tell me gruffly that you were busy. I haven't seen you since he came at me that one time; I didn't come back. it's been 2 years, 7 months and 26 days since I saw you, saw my best friend.
you moved with him, away from our little town. I don't know where you are, or how you are, or what happened; I hope you're okay.
in the summer before you met him, you and I sat, splayed in the bright green grass of my yard, reading out loud from 'alice in wonderland' and 'pride and prejudice.' you told me to be strong that summer.
you used to tuck flowers behind your ears.
but that was all before.