You are no Better

The blood.
The pain.
One night obviously wasn't enough.

A thousand brush strokes from Bosch's dark fingertips
could not begin to replicate the impenetrable horror
of the bloody pictures flopped on the table and passed around
like a gutted fish at the market.

He could not in a thousand differing colors describe
this eternal moment, darker than the Death of the Miser,
more hopeless than the Fall of the Damned, and more
perverted than the Allegory of Gluttony and Lust.

He could not in his understandably twisted mind fathom
the deep, dark, hopeless anguish she bathes in once again
as every single memory, more vivid than the original instance flashes
before her eyes like searing lightning in the freezing rain.

The blood.
The pain.
One night obviously wasn't enough;
after he had his way, you would now have yours.

If he hit her once, you hit her twice.
If he tore her flesh one inch, you tore it two.
If he forced himself upon her, you too forced yourself into her mind and onto her blood soaked body only to decide this never happened.
If he raped her once, your fucking verdict raped her twice.

Heed these words.
If he goes after her again, his fate shall be worse than death; and at this, yours shall be twice his hell.