My heart is staler than it used to be. A little bit older. A little bit stiffer. Like a smoker's lungs, blackened with the toxins that I inhaled for so long, refusing to accept the fact that he was dangerous and not healthy for me. But I was young, and stupid, and addicted to his high.

I always told myself I wouldn't be one of those girls who got hurt and then refused to love again. But even now, when you're showing all the signs, I find my reclusive heart burying itself behind my lungs, reminding me to breathe you in first. Only when I feel safe in your arms will I allow the vapors to waft into my heart.

My eyes are sharper now, more aware of every move you make, calculating, speculating, waiting for you to say or do something so I can push you away. I used to see through slanted vision, but now I know to keep my eyes wide. And it's not fair to you, but when you've been hurt and abused as many times as I have, the scars on your arms learn to sense the danger long before they allow another's skin to touch mine.