You sucked the air out of every room you entered.
I still feel I am in that coffin I called a home
whenever fear creeps in.
I never believed I had the right to fear.
I was meant to be strong, but children shouldn’t
be strong, they should be protected.
But I protected you.
Every act of silence, every act of hiding your secret
was an act of betrayal.
What are people going to say?
What fucking people?
I betrayed myself to carry your burden.
I betrayed my right to happiness and safety
so you could continue your reign of violence.
But he is ill, but he is your blood
But what about the blood he drained out of me?
I was taught that my existence came at a cost
that I had to pay from the moment I saw the light of day.
Be the bigger person, you are better than him.
Have understanding, be compassionate
but don’t show us your wounds
lick them in silence.
Find a way to forgive, without hearing “I am sorry”
Find a way out even though all doors are bolted shut.
Suffer in silence and don’t forget to be pretty when you cry.
No one is here to save you, the system is designed to fail you.
Don’t show rage and anger, it’s unbecoming for a victim.
We have a mold you have to fit in,
a set of guidelines for you to comply with
if you ever want to be free.
It’s not your world, it’s ours, we designed it.
You are a puppet on a string and we will cut them
if you dare to stand in rebellion, if you dare believe
that this wasn’t your cross to bear.
You are not a child, you are a statistic.
A mere number in this cesspool of lost childhoods.
We are expecting you to fail and if you succeed
we will hail you as an example when others like you
Start to cry and say it’s impossible or that they are scared.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
I hug my knees to my chest, rock back and forth.
Illness and weakness creep in with time
because the body kept the score
Of everything vile.
I don’t recognize myself in the mirror
because I walk the world with your face
glued on my head, I have your eyes and
your mannerism because even nature
decided to punish me for sins I didn’t commit.
I wish I could wash this off, like mud,
like the filth that it is. I want to believe there is
a world where I am not branded by your mistakes.
I would like to believe I am enough
to step into the light
But hell has a way of burning stronger
whenever you want to put out the fire.
Is there a point in which a victim becomes a survivor
if her mind is constantly haunted by the images of a time
when she was just another number?
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