Dismembered on the inside
smiling on the outside.
I still hear my cries
from when my father hit my mom.
The slap still echos
through the valleys of my mind.
The first act of violence
I've ever been scared of.
As a child of nine
dealing with the pain
of losing a father
who never cared
being reminded
your just like him
they turn their back
and say bad things.
Does this mean
I'm as bad as him?
As a child of ten I had no way
to deal with the pain.
Going against my family
and going insane.
Acting like an angel
with good grades.
While lying to my mother
and going to a club.
Having a boyfriend
and going to his house.
As a child of eleven
I discovered sharp objects.
Feelings tearing away
from the inside out.
Taking the razor
and dragging it
across my wrist.
They took away the pain
of being me.
As a child of twelve
I discovered hot metal objects.
Placing them against my skin
feeling the tear down my cheek.
The discolored skin
of being burned
by a flat iron.
It eliminated the pain.
As a teen of fourteen
I discovered my mother was a liar.
She promised never to get married.
She doesn't even love him.
Yet here I am
being torn away
from my mother
and left with my grandmother
like a piece of luggage.
She didn't even care.
I continued with my escapes.
As a teen of fifteen
I discovered something
I don't very much like
my family.
No one noticed
when I started to change.
The black pants and shirts.
The sudden want of darkness and cold.
Long sleeves in the middle of summer.
No skin shown when it's 100 degrees.
No one ever noticed
how much pain I hid.
No one ever cared
to undo the mask
that hid my pain.
No one ever cared
enough to make me change.
So I lie here in my grave.
At the age of sixteen
because I discovered
I never meant a thing.
