Living Proof

Now I understand the tragedy of my childhood.

Hiding behind tall figures that speak for me.

Noticing the stillness of the world,

the in between of morning and night has come to know me best.

Swallowing the liquid courage to disinfect my clenched intestines.

Looking down at my feet to conceal my despair.

And staring at the blank pages before me, wondering if I should write the truth.

To write about the black and white death of me,

that enduring you brought to my then fragile body with force.

YOU, who stole my childhood with your bare hands.

Frozen in fright, suffocating on the stench of your cologne, having your violent fingers squeezing my wrists, once again claiming my territory as your own.

Watching dark, purple spots forming between my thighs.

Then forcing my eyes to shut to lose sight of you as your body is pressed against mine.

And wishing I had the power to tap my shoes together 3 times and just go home.

But you didn’t cause no ordinary nightmares.

You caused a burning hole of what was left of my heart.

You made me believe that what you have taken from me, was normal for so many years.

And over the years, I’ve wondered if this was suppose to be normal for me.

Maybe it was.

A few months ago, I gave my love to someone, who in return, used to claim my body as his own punching bag.

When the bruises showed, I pretend that my dark circles has awaken from their deep sleep.

When the trauma was over, I looked at this grimy mirror, seeing my reflection in misery, telling me, “Disappear. You've held this secret long enough, it is time to disappear."

Wanting to force some pills down my throat, making me want to be in a sleeping curse, never wanting to live ever again.

Instead, I dragged the blade across my arm and watching it as it floods.

My mother would always ask me, “What are you thinking?”

But how can I possibly answer this difficult question, when my parents both knew what was happening to me for so many years.

And did not take any action to protect their own daughter, until it was too late.

“Just stay away from him. Don’t be quiet,” my father said.

How can a traumatized 8-year-old girl “stay away” from someone who she knew she couldn’t?

And how can she speak up if she knows that she will never be heard?

Because of HIM, I fear just about all.

Because of HIM, I fear of any man who is in my presence.

Because of HIM, he made me feel ashamed and guilty.

HE left me with a scar from my breasts to my inner thighs to remember HIM by, which is in no hurry to heal anytime soon.

But the most tragic thing I have endured in my childhood was the fact that people expected my nose to grow when I spoke about this blood, churning experience.

To begin their rapid fire of doubts as soon as I opened my mouth.

Still treating me like glass, scared that I am going to break.

Don’t be gentle with my chipped edges, I won’t shatter into a million pieces in your presence for your sake.

I am just telling you to listen.

Listen to those who deserve and need to be heard.

Make them have a voice, not let them be seen as a victim.

But a survivor.

See them as someone who will not be torn down.

See them as stronger than ever before.

I have a few scars still showing, showing that I was willing to suffer than give up.

The scars, speaking on behalf of those who don’t survive, to those who just don’t make it through.

They’ve stayed silent, never allowing their lips to spread the message their bones wants to set free.

And you want to know how I know?

Because I am one, I am standing here as your living proof.