The measure of this woman

I have been told too many times to even begin to count how pretty, beautiful, attractive, and whatever other adjective you want to add, I am. Seems that others always see something in us that, we, ourselves do not. You see, when I look in the mirror, I see bruises, scratches, scrapes, swollen eyes and a fractured face, I see pain. It's difficult to believe that anyone can't see what I do, because I walk around with these outward scars, although the internal ones run much deeper, everyday. Make-up has become my best friend, she keeps my stories secret, she doesn't spill out my hurt, she helps hide it. They say the best way to rid your pain is to tell your story, I have, numerous times. I have spoken to battered women, to teenage girls and boys, to people who had never dealt with abuse at all. 
I don't like that I have stories to tell, yes stories, plural, because there are many, committed by the hands of someone I loved and thought loved me. There are times I believe all the lies he told me, that I am stupid, that I am difficult to love, hard to please, a bitch....the best one, I deserve what happen to me, what he did to me, the abuse. If you asked me how do I describe myself, how do I measure my worth....I can't completely answer that question. Its not the adjectives other people use. I measure myself not by what I look like but how I have survived, how I have lived. I have wonderful children, a nice house, people in my life that support and nurture me. I wake up grateful to take another breath, to be able to enjoy the day ahead and see the faces of those who love me without condition. I don't always wake up feeling "wonderful", I still have days when it's almost unbearable to get out of bed, but there are people depending on me. 
I thank those who have given compliments, whether sincere or not, I appreciate your kindness, my looks don't measure me or make me. 
My beauty faded with fists. 
The measure of this woman, the value of me, my worth....that is not complete, I'm not finished with this life, but in the end I want people to say "She was a great mom", "She is an awesome friend", "you could count on her"....not she was beautiful. 

Never enough time and too soon

Every time I hear any Metallica song I am reminded of him. Luis was the one person who could look at my smiling face and know that something was wrong. He knew the real smile from the fake. When my whole world was falling apart, his heart knew, even miles away. It was like he was part of me, part of my soul. Every now and then I feel him, a touch on my shoulder, a gentle hand wiping away my tears, holding my heart to keep it from falling to pieces, keeps me from falling to pieces. He was my stabilizer, my rock, my foundation. And all those things he was to me, I couldn't be for him. Why? I was young and stupid. I begged God to bring him back, I cried to Him to please bring back my Angel. But it was too late. They kept telling me I would forget about him over time and my heart would heal, things would get easier. Liars. It still hurts. I am strong because of him. I love because of him. And he's gone. The reality of that never goes away. My heart loves him, that will never change no matter who is in my life. I hold my memories of him. He was a casualty for what he loved, his country. 

"Never enough time" was always my excuse and then he was gone too soon. 

Miss you shipmate.