Her Gift to Him

Her tearducts they are his.

Gift wrapped in the same frenzy-patterned paper that coats her everytime they part ways, but tied with a satin-smooth bow that resembles his slick and smooth way of wrapping her up in his arms so that she doesn't leave him on those oh-so-lonely nights.

And everytime she prepares to see him, she paints her soft taupe canvas with crimson red lips that is smeared off of her by his back-lashing words; with blushing pink cheeks that turn pale when she hears him yell.

And her gift to him is always lined in jet-black- spinning in infinite circles around and around like an athlete who runs on a black track, until a stream of water flows down, causing a faint dry path going down her baby-soft cheek, marking the new direction of a streak of paint colored with pain.

The pain that is caused by the wear and tear of his man-handling hands which eagerly accept her gift, but that with one bad tear causes a jagged etch with sharp blade-like edges that in the blink of an eye he uses against her to cause a scar so deep-- deep enough to make her give him yet another gift...her self-worth.