He called her jagged,
once,
he of the every-color eyes
who looked through her
without trepidation,
opened up her insecurities
with a single slice
of unadulterated admiration.

He called her jagged,
then,
when they were young
and the world was full
of encumbered solace,
when they slept through days
with destitution,
wanting life outside
those gritty walls.

And she complied,
splintering at the edges,
becoming so perfectly imperfect
for his approval
in a desecrated dance of servility;
no looking down, darling,
always up into those glinting eyes
suffused with malice.

He called her jagged,
once,
roughened her complexion
with a word
designed to gratify her subtlety,
make a shallow secret
something grander
imbued of grandeur
not her own.

She's not her own.