The ache in my arm lingers.
Ebbs, a painful melody
Slowly, it spreads through my body,
Exploring the raw lands that remain.

There is hardly a hint of the fight that remains,
Hardly a visual symbol of the shame
But sometimes I wish it would grow -
That the light red indentation would become purple,
Black, and blue - That it would swell,
Become a welt.
Maybe then, they would know.