This is my choice.

She whispers, over and over,

Over and over,

Over and over,

As the needle plunders her pale flesh,

Digging already broken promises into her bones.

This is still her body.

Later,

Seconds minutes hours,

Later,

She opens the door to his face,

His eyes already on her shoulder.

His smile cuts past the bone.

Later,

Minutes hours days,

Later,

He's in bed,

Asleep,

Next to her,

Large and rippling,

And she's trying not to drown in her own salt water,

In her own sea.

It doesn't feel like her body.

Later,

Hours days weeks,

Later,

She's at work,

When a hand brushes along the side of her arm,

Slip-slides along her shoulder,

Past the black swirls,

Touches the purple underneath.

Eyes look up under eyelashes.

"What?"

"What's with the—"

Laughter rings out,

Harsh harsh harsh,

"I fell into something."

Later,

Days weeks months,

Later,

He has to leave.

He won't leave.

Why won't he leave?

She wants to be hers again.

Later,

Week months years,

Later,

She's gaunt,

All sagging flesh and bone.

He doesn't see the circles under her eyes,

Doesn't see the wobble of her neck;

He can't see.

Not with six feet of dirt, wood, and her golden ring in his eyes.

She still isn't free.

Later,

Months, years, nothing.

Later,

She has given her body up,

Has returned it—

Thank you very much—

And at long last,

She is hers again.