The beatings, the pain, scars and sears into my head.
Every day, I’m punished simply for existing.
Verbal. Physical. Emotional. Mental. This abuse, I can take it.
But from my own family?
Maybe they’re right.
I lean over the sink with spiteful thoughts thoroughly implanted in my mind.
Maybe I’m worthless.
The knife looks surprisingly sharp
Maybe I should go.
It flickered silver in the fluorescent light.
Maybe I should cry for awhile.
The sink fills a bit with my little red warriors.
Maybe it’s worth it.
I can’t even cry. My eyes are dry and sore as if I’ll never be able to cry again.
Maybe I’ll stay.
I place the knife under the running water.
Maybe I’ll fight the bullies.
I wrap my arm in my sleeve.
Maybe I’m done fighting.
I shake my head and cry silent tears.
Maybe this time they’ll hear me.
I pick the blade up…
Maybe I’ll sleep.
And drill it into my chest.
Maybe they should’ve listened.
The red warriors are free.