It is only me

My hands,
worn and callaused deep within the skin.
Rubbed raw from sleepless nights,
spent lying awake,
scribbling away every detail of my nightmares,
and describing the daily torture I endure.
From his fierce eyes mirroring hatred.
My eyes,
weary, tired and nervous.
Darting about,
always searching,
scouring about for a dark corner to hide myself away in.
Red, bloodshot and lifeless,
no lust for the world left.
Too many teary days for such a life.
Yet they still hold a glimmer,
of hope and desperation,
for the sun to shine through a rainy day,
but my eyes are always left disapointed.
My body,
too short, too plump.
Not at all even in spots where balance is cruical.
It awkwardly tumbles about,
through the world,
bumping people here
and pushing people there.
Curves are everywhere,
when I so deeply crave lines not ovals,
circles and spheres.
I could lose 100 lbs,
and still be left unsatisfied.
Perfect is unatainable.
My limbs,
small yet strong.
Legs strong enough,
to carry me through this world,
running away from mere reality.
My arms hold so much strength,
but not nearly enough,
to push him off.
Not nearly strong enough,
to beat him hard till he ceased.
Not nearly enough,
to hold him back,
keep him away from penetrating my fragile psyche.
My appendiges bare scars,
marks of my own cruelty to myself.
Scars where razors drew blood.
Scars of my past,
scars entailing my future.
Where will they stop?
This is me,
body expression,
language,
art,
me.
This is living proof of where I've been,
where I am,
and where I will come to be.
Me,