I'm sorry you had to see me like this. My skin tells a tale, one I wish to hide. From the red bruises round my feet, when I went running across the grass without  shoes in the summer Fields. Accompanied by pink lines on my forearms from rubbing against the fence.  To the scratches, turning red against my back, from brutal times I wish not to speak of. I beg for you not to make me.  When I'm compared to you, you're nothing but sunflowers, and lavender. But my skin compares to that of a prickly thorn bunch. Sometimes, I can feel the soft touch of my hair rubbing against my tattered skin, and I wish I could rip it off, Then burn it to a crisp. Sometimes I wonder if I was to break my silence if he'd come back and take me from this place, wrap me in his dance again and kill me. I wonder if he'll take my skin, show it off, " hey look, Loki died, she left us her skin" It wouldn't be a picture you'd want to see. But it's getting on my nerves, because 

I don't know the outcomes, will I fall into a lake and all you'll have left is the  scars on my arms and my cold ill body? Or would you catch me, as you did now, leaving me to apologize, again? I never  wished for you to see my lack of flowers, but,  my roses were clipped long ago, and I am completely ruined.