I have no bruises, nor physical evidence of how you have hurt me.
But my mental scars are just the same, even though they are not visible.
My dear, you shattered my heart and left me in pieces.
You used me and you played with my feelings like they were putty in your hands.
You told me sweet words, and then you hit me with nasty insults and a type of hate that burns deep in your belly.
Was that not abuse, just because it cannot be proven with bruises?
I felt a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat.
I felt a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat. I felt an ache in my heart and an unsettling wave of nausea whenever you spoke to me because all you ever did was speak ill to me.
Yet, still, everyone tells me I am exaggerating.
Even you tell me I am exaggerating.
What I experienced is simply a broken glass of spilled milk.
No use over crying about it,
No use over crying about it, everyone says.
No use over crying about it, everyone says. It's an easy mess to clean up.
Just pick up the broken pieces
Just pick up the broken pieces and wipe up the milk.