I've hidden in closets with my own skeletons
Waiting for the storm to die out, waiting for a hand that never really came.
When you're a kid, there's only so much you can ever speak out to stand for yourself.
Most days it's the guilt and shame that wraps around you like bandages, mummifying you and your story.
I wish more people knew, it's never going to be much of a stranger than your own people who would end up scraping their marks all over you; scarring you in places you wouldn't even realise of, until you see a man - a father, grandfather, uncle, cousin - any man, show even a hint of affection towards a child - it may be the tiniest, most innocent gesture of pure love, but you would hear the sirens go loud in your brain. There's goosebumps and beads of sweat trickling down your forehead. Just one gesture of love and yet your scarred mind rings an alarm in the deepest corners of your memory lane, and you realise something's wrong. Something is awfully wrong. For you to not be able to look at love for what it is, because somewhere down the line, you were once a kid and you wanted to believe in love and magic and superheroes who come to save the day. But it never really happened. Instead they smeared black dirt all over you, all over your favourite blue dress. You looked in the mirror, trying so hard to get it off your skin, off your dress, but the harder you tried, the deeper the wounds grew. And so you learn to shun your memories; pretend that it never really happened. What would the world think of a girl who has marks of men over her, before she even turned 13?
Drunk men walking in, pretending to shower love on little girls while they plead to be left alone. Even worse for the ones who don't have a say in a society that's built its construct like a pyramid, where only the ones at the top get to speak out for themselves. As though your truth is only true enough, when you're someone worth of some value.
What twisted fabricated world do we even live in?
Don't you see it? It's your own daughter, your own son, drowning in despair. You wouldn't know of the pain that comes when a person stands in front of people and doubts every single action of theirs. When you can't look love in the eyes, for what it is anymore.
How exhausting - to be running from the world, hiding in closets with skeletons, writing letters of forgiveness to people who were never even sorry for their actions.
Most days it's just me, reminding myself that I need to hide myself better. "Stay out of sight. If you don't draw their attention, nobody's gonna come and harm you."
It's a race that never ends - me trying to outrun my own shadows, outrun the world.
I wish I knew sooner, that no one's coming for a long time; that I'll have to learn to pick my own scattered pieces up, and forgive myself for blaming the kid for not doing something back then; for not realizing that she was only a kid, and the bravest thing she could do back then, was to not give up.
